The battlefield was alive with death, a macabre dance of writhing wraiths, ghastly shadows, shambling zombies, and rattling skeletons. Ghostly apparitions drifted above like lost memories, while ghasts growled with hunger, their twisted faces contorted with malice. Myrkul’s legions of undead stood in eerie silence, waiting for his command, their hollow eyes fixed on the group of adventurers, harpers and tieflings
It was a scene ripped from the darkest nightmares, a place where hope seemed to fade under the weight of death itself.
But then, Alex stepped forward.
The air shifted. It was almost imperceptible at first, a subtle change in pressure, but then it grew—a presence, a force that radiated from him. His companions felt it wash over them like a wave, something pure , something divine. Even the undead hesitated in their march, as though sensing an unknown power.
Alex’s voice rang out, clear and resolute, cutting through the deathly silence like a blade of light.
“Morninglord. Moonmaiden. Dark Maiden. Hear me.”
A surge of radiant energy began to gather around him, first a soft glow, but quickly intensifying into a brilliant halo of light. Myrkul, towering and grim, raised his colossal scythe high above his head, preparing to cleave Alex in two with a single stroke.
But Alex wasn’t finished.
“Convergence.”
The word, spoken with quiet power, was followed by a cataclysmic burst of radiant magic that exploded outward from Alex in all directions. The blast was so intense that the others were forced to shield their eyes, blinded by the sudden light. The ground beneath them trembled, the very air crackling with divine energy.
When the light faded, the undead legions were no more. Where the foul creatures had stood moments ago, there was now nothing but dust, as though they had never existed. But even this was secondary to what now stood before them.
Alex—if it was still Alex—had transformed into something more, something beyond mortal understanding.
The figure was radiant, a being made entirely of silvery and golden light, its form shifting with an ethereal beauty that seemed to defy the laws of reality. Tendrils of light, like divine wings, extended from his back, weaving through the air as if they were alive. In the center of his chest pulsed a black sphere, a singularity of shadow and mystery, the only hint of darkness in his otherwise blinding form.
He raised a hand, and Myrkul’s scythe, came crashing down—only to stop, inches from Alex’s radiant figure. With effortless grace, Alex caught the blade in his glowing hand.
Myrkul’s voice, usually so full of dark power, wavered in disbelief. “Impossible.”
The light from Alex’s hand spread rapidly along the scythe, crawling like living tendrils, consuming the deathly weapon. Myrkul, sensing the shift in power, let go of the scythe, taking a step back. His skeletal hand rose, ready to unleash a spell, but before he could even utter a word, the tendrils of light shot forward, wrapping themselves around his arm, pulling him toward Alex.
The god of death struggled, his ancient form writhing in the grip of divine power. But the light was too strong, too pure. His form, a towering mass of bone and decay, began to unravel as the radiant tendrils tightened, slowly enveloping him. Myrkul’s eyes, twin pinpricks of darkness in a sea of bone, widened as he realized the inevitability of his fate.
“You… are mine.” Alex’s voice resonated, not just in the air, but in the very fabric of existence itself.
The tendrils of light surged, wrapping around Myrkul’s body, binding him in radiant chains. His struggles grew more desperate, but they were futile. The light expanded further, engulfing him entirely. Myrkul let out a roar, a sound filled with anger, fear, and the agony of a god realizing he had been bested.
Alex’s form of light expanded, growing larger, more radiant, until he was like a star—a burning sun of divine power. Myrkul’s roars became muffled, then silent, as the god of death was swallowed whole by the light. The chamber itself seemed to pulse, reacting to the sheer magnitude of what was unfolding within it.
_____________________
The white space stretched infinitely around Alex, a void where sound felt muted, and time seemed to stretch into an eternity. He glanced down at himself, surprised to see his old clothes, the familiar fabrics of the world he once knew, clinging to him like a distant memory. It was as though he had stepped outside of everything—outside of life, death, and the battle he had just fought. The radiant power he had wielded, the divine energy coursing through him, was now a soft glow that gently pulsed beneath his skin, almost forgotten in this quiet place.
But his focus wasn’t on himself.
Alex's eyes drifted to his left, drawn to the presence of a figure he never expected to see again. Ketheric Thorm—once a mighty general, once a servant of Myrkul—now knelt in the same broken stillness that gripped the place. But this was not the Ketheric Alex remembered. There was no armor, no dark mantle of power that had once cloaked the man in terror. He was stripped bare, both physically and spiritually. His once imposing form now appeared frail, aged, and worn, as though the weight of his monstrous past had consumed every last bit of humanity he had once possessed.
Ketheric sat , naked, his expression one of deep, soul-crushing sorrow. He didn’t lift his head. He couldn’t. The shame was too much. He just stared at the ground, his once-proud eyes now hollowed with regret. His voice, when it came, was weak—full of a sadness that words alone could never convey.
"You won..." Ketheric said, his voice barely above a whisper. "A monster who wished to be human. The opposite of me—born a man, became a monster."
The words hung heavy in the air. Alex felt the weight of them press against his chest, a deep, aching sorrow that threatened to crush him. He understood Ketheric’s pain in a way few others could. Both of them had been changed by forces beyond their control, shaped into things they never wanted to be. Yet here they were, at the end of it all, bound together by fate and circumstance, standing at the precipice of life and death.
Ketheric’s eyes were still downcast, his shoulders sagging as if the very essence of his being was slipping away. "What remains of my soul... after I sacrificed it to Myrkul, is fading. Piece by piece, I am dissolving into nothingness. A fitting end, I suppose... for someone like me."
His voice trembled, as if even admitting this was a struggle. Alex watched as Ketheric’s form seemed to shimmer, flickering between existence and oblivion. Memories flooded through Alex's mind—Ketheric’s. His pain, his grief, his loss. As the orb consumed Ketheric's soul, Alex saw the heartache of a father who had lost everything, who had tried to defy the gods themselves for a sliver of hope.
"Can you promise me something?" Ketheric asked suddenly, his voice barely holding on to the last vestiges of strength. His gaze, though still averted, held a quiet desperation.
Alex hesitated. "It depends," he responded softly, unsure if he had the strength—or the will—to grant Ketheric anything more.
Ketheric took a shuddering breath, as though speaking the next words would be his final act. "Sever the connection... the link that binds my soul to Isobel."
His voice cracked on the last syllable, and for the first time, Ketheric's eyes met Alex’s. There was no malice there, no anger. Only sorrow. Sorrow for what he had become. Sorrow for the lifes he had ruined. Sorrow for the daughter he had condemned to a fate she never deserved.
Alex felt something stir inside him—something beyond the divine essence he now carried. It was a shared grief, a shared understanding of the burdens both men had borne. He let out a slow breath, his voice soft but resolute. "I already did."
Ketheric’s face twitched slightly, his lips parting as though to speak, but no words came. Instead, there was a brief, fleeting moment of peace in his eyes. A peace he hadn’t known for so long. He bowed his head once more, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "Good then," he murmured, as though the simple act of releasing Isobel was the one thing that could free him.
His body shimmered, the flickering of his form growing more pronounced. And then, piece by piece, Ketheric began to dissolve. His outline blurred, his body becoming nothing more than motes of fading light. There was no grand farewell, no final moment of triumph or defeat. Only silence. And within that silence, Ketheric Thorm—a man who had once been both a hero and a monster—was no more.
Alex watched as the last remnants of Ketheric drifted away. Ketheric’s memories still lingered within him, mingling with his own, making it impossible to fully separate himself from the tragedy he had just witnessed. It was a reminder of the fine line they all walked between redemption and damnation, between the light and the dark.
His chest ached, the black sphere pulsing faintly as if it too mourned the loss.
"Ketheric..." Alex whispered softly, his voice barely audible. There was nothing else to say.
In the end, there was no hero's sendoff for the fallen general—only a quiet, tragic end. And though Ketheric Thorm was gone, his legacy—his sins, his regrets—would live on, woven into the very fabric of Alex’s soul.
His eyes locked forward, drawn by an undeniable presence. A familiar figure took form ahead of him, stepping out from the void like a memory come to life.
"Minthara," Alex whispered, his voice filled with longing .
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The drow woman stood before him, her stark white hair falling over her shoulders, and her eyes—the eyes he had once known so well—were filled with a strange, calm acceptance. She offered him a soft smile, but there was something sad behind it, something distant.
"Alex," Minthara said, her voice as smooth and quiet as a distant echo. She was only a few steps away, but there was an infinite distance between them.
Without thinking, Alex raised his hand to her, as if the simple act of reaching out could bridge the gap. She just needed to grab his hand and her soul would be sent back to her body. But Minthara didn’t move. She didn’t take his hand. Instead, she looked at him with that same bittersweet smile, her eyes filled with something beyond words, beyond even sorrow.
"I'm not going back," she said quietly, the finality in her tone cutting through Alex like a dagger.
Her words pierced his heart, sharper than any blade. He kept his hand outstretched, frozen, as if holding onto hope that hadn’t yet slipped away.
"Why?" The question fell from his lips, almost a plea, a desperate attempt to understand.
A sad sigh escaped her, and her gaze drifted down, as if the answer weighed her down. "I saw things on the other side, Alex… things I can't unsee," she murmured, her voice trembling for a brief moment. "Things that made me realize I have no reason to live anymore."
The silence that followed felt crushing, as if the entire universe was holding its breath. Alex remained quiet, knowing Minthara had more to say. He could feel it, feel the unresolved tension in her, the pain she carried.
"The time with you, and your friends," she continued, her voice softening with a hint of warmth, "was the most beautiful period of my life, albeit short. I laughed, I smiled… and for the first time, I loved. I truly loved you." Her words hung heavy in the air, her emotions laid bare. "But those things aren’t for me. They never were."
Alex’s heart clenched. She was right there, and yet slipping further away with every word. "Then why refuse to come back?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
Minthara moved closer, her presence filling the space between them. Her hand, warm and gentle, cupped his cheek, a gesture so tender it felt like a farewell. She gazed at him, her expression unreadable but filled with a love so deep it threatened to break him. "Because," she whispered, her breath a soft breeze against his skin, "your friends will go their own way once this is over. And you, Alex… you are destined for greatness. For heights I can’t even imagine. I know it." She smiled sadly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "While I… I will remain the same Minthara."
Alex opened his mouth to argue, to beg, to convince her that none of that mattered, that he wanted her beside him. But before he could speak, her lips met his.
The kiss was brief but filled with everything—love, pain, regret. When they parted, she looked at him with finality. "I’ve made my decision," she said softly, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "This isn’t surrender. I need to atone for what I’ve done. I need to find peace in my own way."
Alex stared at her, his heart aching, knowing deep down that once she made up her mind, there was no changing it. He had seen that fire in her before, the determination that wouldn’t bend, not for anything. Not even for him.
She took a few steps back, creating a distance between them that felt like an eternity. Her eyes lingered on his, memorizing every detail of his face, as if she were seeing him for the last time.
"You were a beautiful experience," Alex said, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him.
Minthara’s eyes glistened, and for the first time, a tear slipped down her cheek. "You… were everything," she replied, her voice breaking. She smiled through the tears, a smile filled with love and loss. "Goodbye, Alex."
And with that, she turned away, her figure slowly fading into the white void. Alex watched her go, his chest tightening with every step she took. Her form grew more transparent, her silhouette dissolving into the light until there was nothing left.
"Goodbye, Minthara," he whispered, the emptiness echoing around him.
A silence settled, one so deep it felt like the world had stopped turning. Alex stood there, staring at the space where Minthara had disappeared, his heart heavy, his mind numb. But then, a new presence stirred the air. He turned to the right, his senses picking up a figure materializing out of the whiteness.
Withers—no, not Withers. Jergal, the original god of death, loomed before him, watching with a knowing gaze.
Alex’s eyes flickered with recognition, his emotions still raw from the encounter. "Jergal," he said, his voice steady but laced with the remnants of heartbreak.
"I hath come to reclaim that which ne’er was thine.” Jergal intoned, his words thick with an antiquated weight. “Dost thou feel it? The power thou holdst is ill-fitted to thy soul. Thou cravest it not. 'Tis but a burden thou bearest for the sake of another—noble, mayhap, yet misguided. Release it, for it shall undo thee in the end.”
Alex’s weary eyes flicked toward the god. Jergal was right—he had never wanted this power. The only reason he had consumed Myrkul’s essence, and bound it within himself , was to bring Minthara back to life. That was his singular purpose, the driving force behind his every desperate action. But now, with Minthara's refusal to return, that purpose was gone. The divine weight sitting heavily within his soul was nothing but a curse he could no longer bear.
The black sphere in Alex’s chest pulsed one last time, as if recognizing the inevitable. A putrid, green mist—reeking of decay and death—began to billow from his chest, swirling as it formed into a ball of rotting energy. The stench of it clung to the air, sickly sweet like corpses left too long in the sun. The remnants of Myrkul's divinity—dark, festering, and wrong—had no place inside a mortal heart.
With a tired, resigned exhale, Alex let go.
The ball of green mist floated from Alex’s chest, drawn toward Jergal’s outstretched, skinny hand. The god of death's frail fingers curled around it, the divine essence settling into his palm like a long-lost heirloom returned to its rightful owner.
Jergal gazed at Alex with the same expressionless, ancient demeanor. Yet there was an unspoken understanding in the air between them—a silent acknowledgement of the weight that had passed between them.
“Thou hast borne thy burden well,” Jergal said softly, his voice still rich with antiquity but now tinged with a rare note of... approval? “But thou art no vessel for gods. Thy fate lies elsewhere, away from the yoke of death’s dominion.”
Alex nodded, his body weak, his soul even more so. He had never wanted godhood. All he had ever wanted was to save those he loved. He didn’t want power, or glory, or eternal life.
With a final bow of his ancient head, Jergal began to fade from sight, his form dissipating like mist under the morning sun. "Fare thee well, Alex," he whispered, his voice now but a wisp in the air. "May the gods of light guide thee, as thou doth walk thy own path."
And with that, Jergal was gone, leaving Alex standing alone, the remnants of godhood stripped from his soul, and the weight of mortality—both its curse and its blessing—settling once more upon his shoulders.
The white space was quiet again. There was no divine presence lingering, no godly whispers in the back of his mind.
_______________
The moment the light receded, an eerie, unnatural stillness fell over the cavern. The air felt heavy, as though the very breath of life had been sucked out. Myrkul was no more—gone, consumed by the force Alex had unleashed. But the victory felt hollow, as the remnants of that divine confrontation left their mark.
There, in the dimming glow, stood Alex—or at least, what was left of him.
His once-strong frame had withered to a mere shadow of itself. His skin was stretched tight over bone, mottled with burns and peeling in grotesque patches. What had been vibrant, youthful flesh now looked like something ancient and dead. His eyes, once filled with life, were sunken deep into his skull, almost hollow, like a specter of the man he once was. His hair, was entirely gone, leaving behind a bald and scarred scalp that made him look more corpse than living.
And then, with a slow, agonizing movement, Alex collapsed to his knees, his body trembling under the weight of his own frailty. There was no scream, no shout—just a soft, defeated exhale, as if the last breath of his strength had escaped him. His broken form slumped forward, barely holding itself up.
A stunned silence followed. The others could do nothing but stare, their hearts gripped by the horrifying sight before them. None dared to move, none dared to speak—none even knew if they should approach him. It was as if the man they knew had become something else entirely, something that transcended mortality yet was still bound by it in the cruelest of ways.
Isobel was the first to react, rushing forward with her hands glowing, radiant magic already swirling around her fingers. She cast healing spells—desperate, frantic prayers to Selûne for restoration. But nothing changed. The divine energy dissipated around Alex’s broken form as if it could not reach him. "Please," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "Selûne, hear me… let him be healed." But no matter how fervently she cast, how deeply she believed, Alex remained unchanged.
Karlach’s normally confident demeanor crumbled into raw emotion. "Gods… Alex," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. The fierce warrior—who had faced countless foes without flinching—felt her heart break. She wanted to rush to his side, to lift him up, but her hands hovered just above him, trembling. She couldn’t bring herself to touch him, afraid that he might fall apart, afraid that he might already be dead.
Astarion stood frozen, his usual swagger and wit stripped away, replaced with something deeper—something vulnerable. "By the gods… what has he become?" he muttered, his eyes fixed on Alex’s ruined body. For a moment, the vampire spawn forgot his own condition, his own undead nature, as a strange, unfamiliar pity welled up inside him. He had seen death, inflicted it countless times, but this was different. This was a tragedy beyond anything he had ever witnessed.
Gale’s hands twitched with arcane energy as if instinctively ready to cast a spell, but he stopped himself, shaking his head in disbelief. "This wasn’t supposed to happen," he murmured, his voice heavy with guilt. "He shouldn’t… he wasn’t meant to bear this alone." He clenched his fists, feeling helpless in the face of a power he could barely comprehend.
Wyll, looked down at Alex with a mixture of horror and reverence. "He sacrificed everything," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "More than any of us. He carried the weight of gods." His hands balled into fists at his side, feeling the sting of impotence, of being unable to help the friend who had fought so hard for them all.
Lae'zel, stood rigid, her eyes narrowed as she fought to contain her emotions. "He fought like a warrior to the end… but even the gods claim their victories at great cost," she said through gritted teeth. Yet, for the first time, her voice trembled, betraying the turmoil inside her. She, who had fought alongside him so fiercely, felt a knot of regret and sorrow twist in her chest.
Alfira, was weeping openly now. She had written songs about heroes and battles, but nothing in her stories had prepared her for this. Her lute lay forgotten at her side as she knelt near him, her voice breaking. "Alex… please don’t leave us. Not like this." Her words were soft, like a prayer, her tear-filled eyes reflecting the dim light.
Ellyka, watched from a distance, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She had seen death before, more times than she cared to count, but this… this felt like the end of something much larger, something that shouldn’t be.
Aylin, the radiant daughter of Selûne, stood frozen in disbelief. Her silver blade was still in hand, glowing faintly, but even she—an immortal angel—felt powerless. "I have seen many battles," she whispered, "but never have I seen such a sacrifice."
Jaheria, stood at the edge of the group. "He gave everything," she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the stillness. "For us, for this world. But at what cost?"
Halsin, looked down at Alex with profound sadness. "This is not the way of nature," he muttered. "No mortal should bear such a burden. This is wrong."
Even the Harpers, stood in solemn silence. They had seen heroes fall, but never like this. There were no songs for this moment, no cheers for victory—only the suffocating weight of what had been lost.
Glut and Shadow, their psychic connection with Alex now severed, stood still, unnerved. Glut’s usual composure faltered as he tried to sense the bond that had once tied them. "It’s gone… all gone," he muttered, his voice hollow.
Shadow stared at Alex with a mix of confusion and grief. His mind, once intertwined with his, was silent. He, too, did not know if Alex still lived.
In the overwhelming stillness, it was Karlach who broke the silence again, her voice trembling with barely contained anguish. "We need to help him… somehow… we can’t just let him…"
But even as the words left her lips, everyone knew. They had all seen the toll this battle had taken. Alex had fought a god by himself —and though he had won, the cost had been more than any of them could have imagined.
Finally, Alex’s eyes flickered open—barely. His gaze, once so full of life, now dim and distant, swept across his friends.
End of Act 2