Tav's hand crackled with psionic energy as he prepared to summon psionic flowers to calm everyone's minds. But as he was about to unleash the power, a voice cut through the chaos, calm yet commanding. It was Alex's voice, sharp and steady in his mind.
"Don't," Alex said. "They need to face their fears."
Tav hesitated, the energy in his hand flickering, then dissipating. He glanced around, noticing everyone’s eyes were on Alex, who had already taken a step forward, moving towards his own nightmare with the quiet intensity of a storm building on the horizon.
Karlach’s voice broke the tense silence. "He’s angry. Really angry." She said as she could feel the rage coursing through Alex. It felt like a sword freshly took out from a forge. Hot and focused.
Astarion’s eyes gleamed with interest, the tension around him momentarily forgotten. "This is going to be a show," he murmured, watching Alex like a predator sizing up a more dangerous beast.
Even the terrors, shifting grotesquely, seemed to sense something. They took an instinctive step back as Alex strode forward, his focus unwavering. He walked past the other terrors as if they didn’t exist, eyes locked only on his nightmare. His nightmare stood before him—an armored monstrosity, its flesh part of the very black ichor from which it had risen.
But Tav couldn’t dwell on Alex for long. His own nightmare—
The Slayer lunged, a monstrous, blood-soaked reflection of Tav’s darkest fears. Its movements were unnaturally fast, and Tav barely had time to react. Its eyes—burning with the malevolent red glow of Bhaal—locked onto him, mirroring the storm swirling within his own mind.
Instinct kicked in. “Tempus Vendaval!” Tav shouted, and the air around him cracked with raw electricity. Thunder roared overhead as a bolt of lightning shot from his hand, striking the ground between him and the Slayer. For a moment, the creature halted, momentarily stunned by the power Tav unleashed. But then doubt crept in—his aim was off.
"I was aiming for its head…" Tav muttered, glancing at his trembling hands. The fear was making him miss. His heart pounded in his chest as the Slayer sneered, its voice a distorted mockery of his own. “You can’t fight what you are,” it hissed, darting around the smoldering ground with terrifying speed, faster than before.
Tav rolled to the side just in time to avoid its deadly claws. But as he rose to his feet, his mind was clouded with terror. His thoughts spun out of control, and he suddenly felt small—like prey before a predator. His magic faltered, the arcane energy flickering, dissipating from his trembling hands. The Slayer sensed his fear, its eyes gleaming with cruel delight as it lunged again, claws raised high to strike.
Tav stood frozen, the icy grip of fear wrapping tighter around him. He braced for the blow, expecting to feel the life drain from his body as the Slayer’s claws plunged into his chest. The pain came, sharp and real, but… he was still standing.
‘Wait, I’m not dead…’ The thought broke through the fog of terror. He looked down, surprised to see the Slayer’s claws barely nicking his scaled chest. It hadn’t killed him—it couldn’t. It wasn’t capable of ending his life. This nightmare, this terror, was just that: a nightmare. Not reality.
The realization stirred something in him. He wasn’t powerless. He wasn’t helpless.
The Slayer lashed out again, its claws dripping with shadow, and Tav leaped back, narrowly dodging the attack. His breath came in ragged gasps as panic tried to seize him, but he forced himself to stay grounded. ‘It’s not real,’ he repeated in his mind, over and over, like a mantra. But the Slayer was relentless, snapping its jaws around his arm, drawing blood. His mind screamed in protest, but the damage was shallow. It wasn’t real.
"Get off me!" Tav roared, and with a desperate punch, he struck the creature in the face. The blow wasn’t strong, but it was enough to knock the nightmare back. The Slayer staggered, snarling, and Tav felt a flicker of control return to him.
Gathering his strength, Tav summoned another bolt of lightning. The storm answered his call, and he sent the energy surging toward the creature. His hand still shook with residual fear, and the spell missed its mark—but it struck the Slayer’s leg, causing it to spasm violently. The terror it projected began to waver, its grip on Tav loosening. He could feel it—his fear was no longer feeding the creature as much as before.
The storm within him surged again, stronger this time, and Tav’s mind cleared. He wasn’t just fighting a monster. He was fighting himself, his own doubts, his own fears. But he wasn’t the weak, terrified person this thing wanted him to be.
“I am the storm,” Tav growled through clenched teeth. His eyes glowed with the power surging through him, the storm clouds above darkening in response. Lightning crackled across the sky, drawn to his command, and the winds howled as he raised his hands, gathering the tempest around him.
“Fulmen Saevus!” With a powerful sweep of his arm, he unleashed the storm’s full fury. A blinding bolt of lightning tore from the sky and struck the Slayer in the chest, sending it hurtling backward. The creature let out a guttural roar of pain as its form flickered and distorted, struggling to maintain its grip on Tav’s mind. But it was losing.
The wind screamed around them as Tav summoned even more power, channeling the storm’s wrath through him. “You’re nothing but a shadow,” he spat, his voice steady now, controlled. His gaze hardened as his magic flared. “And I will not fall to shadows.”
The Slayer, desperate now, lunged one final time, its form shifting and writhing in an attempt to regain dominance. But Tav was ready. With a powerful thrust of his hands, he unleashed a surge of storm energy that erupted from him like a tidal wave. The winds howled, the ground trembled, and the sheer force of the tempest overwhelmed the Slayer, ripping it apart. Its form disintegrated, dissolving into the black ichor from which it had risen, leaving only silence in its wake.
Tav stood amidst the aftermath, his chest heaving as the storm clouds above began to dissipate. The terror was gone—vanquished. He wasn’t the Slayer. He wasn’t the monster it tried to make him believe he was. He was in control—of his mind, of his destiny. Not Bhaal, not some twisted nightmare.
As the thunder faded into the distance, Tav’s eyes drifted to Alex, still confronting his own horror. The storm within Tav may have passed, but the fight was far from over.
_________________________________
Gale stood frozen, utterly paralyzed before the nightmare in front of him—a broken version of himself, gaunt and hollow-eyed, a shell of the man he once was. The creature’s sunken eyes glared at him with a quiet malice, feeding on his deepest insecurities. His breath came shallow, his fingers trembling as he tried to summon the magic he had always relied on. But nothing came. The Weave felt distant, unreachable, as if his connection to it had been severed. The nightmare sensed his hesitation, its twisted mouth curling into a mocking smile.
“Failure,” it hissed, the word cutting through him like a dagger, each syllable heavier than the last. The sound echoed in his ears, bouncing around his mind until it felt like the only thing he could hear. His chest tightened, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat pounding painfully in his ears as he watched the creature lumber toward him. Every step it took seemed to stretch time, drawing out his dread, and with each step, it became more monstrous, more grotesque—a dark, festering reflection of his worst fear.
Gale’s knees felt weak, his legs like stone, unable to move. 'No… this isn’t real', he tried to tell himself, but the words fell flat in his mind, consumed by the terror growing inside him. His heart raced as if trying to escape his chest, but all he could do was stare—trapped in the weight of his own failure.
The nightmare’s voice, a twisted mockery of his own, dripped with contempt. “Look at you… the great Gale of Waterdeep. A disgrace to magic. You never deserved it.”
He recoiled as if struck, shame flooding through him. His throat felt dry, his palms slick with sweat. He had always prided himself on his control over the Weave, on the power he held. But now, in the face of this twisted version of himself, he felt nothing but helplessness. The Weave, the very essence of his being, slipped further from his grasp, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable.
“I tried… I tried to fix it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice weak, barely audible. But the nightmare just laughed—a harsh, grating sound that sent shivers down his spine. It lunged closer, its form warping and shifting with each step, grotesque limbs stretching unnaturally, its face now a grotesque blend of his own features and Mystra’s, glaring at him with disdain.
“You failed, and now the world will burn because of you.”
Gale’s heart felt like it might burst from his chest. His fingers twitched, desperate to cast, but the terror overwhelmed him. His magic fizzled out before it even left his fingertips. The nightmare slowly walked toward him.
'Move, Gale. MOVE! ' His mind screamed, but his body refused to listen. Every fiber of his being was weighed down by the crushing guilt, the shame of his past mistakes—of letting Mystra down, of nearly destroying everything. The world was crumbling around him, and he couldn’t stop it.
As Gale lay on the cold, unforgiving ground, his vision swam with a haze of panic.
His breath came in shallow gasps, his body numb and disconnected. The Weave, usually an extension of his will, felt like a distant dream, a fleeting memory he could no longer touch.
The nightmare’s distorted, sunken eyes fixed on him, a grotesque mirror of his own failures and fears. It's broken form swelling with each of Gale’s doubts, each flicker of uncertainty. The weight of his shame pressed him deeper into the dirt, as if the world itself wanted to swallow him whole.
“You’ve always been a disappointment,” the nightmare hissed, its voice a haunting echo of his own thoughts. “You were never enough for Mystra, and you’ll never be enough for anyone else.”
The words cut deep, ripping open old wounds Gale had fought so hard to heal. His mind spiraled—his betrayal of Mystra, the catastrophic orb that had been within him, the guilt of nearly destroying everything he held dear. It was all crashing down on him, suffocating him under the weight of his failures. His heart pounded against his ribs, his hands shook uncontrollably, and for a moment, he thought he might simply crumble under the pressure.
But then, amidst the chaos, a spark flickered in his mind. A memory.
Gale could see it vividly—the memory was not his own, yet it flickered in his mind like a lantern in the dark, casting light where there had been only shadows. Alex, as a child, standing protectively beside a little girl with tear-streaked cheeks. The room was dimly lit, the kind of place that could spark a young child’s imagination into terrifying shapes in the corners, whispers from under the bed. The little girl was scared, her wide red eyes glistening with the last remnants of her tears.
Alex, though small, exuded a quiet strength. His voice was soft but firm, like a breeze cutting through thick fog. “Dana, calm down, there is no monster here,” he said gently, crouching beside her. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, his touch warm and comforting.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
“Are you sure?” Dana’s voice wavered, her tiny fists rubbing at her face, as though trying to erase the fear. Her gaze flitted nervously to the closet, to the window, to the dark corners of the room.
Alex didn’t hesitate. He stood up, determined, checking the closet, looking under the bed, and even testing the window latch with careful precision. He moved with the seriousness of someone on a mission, as if nothing else mattered but Dana’s safety. After his search, he returned to her side, sitting down with a reassuring smile.
“There’s nothing,” Alex said, his arm wrapping around her small frame, pulling her close in a warm, protective embrace. “Do you know there’s a way to scare monsters away?” His voice lowered conspiratorially, as though he were about to share the most sacred of secrets.
Dana sniffled, her gaze locked on his, hopeful but uncertain. “How?”
“Monsters can smell fear,” Alex explained, his eyes wide with the gravity of what he was saying. “And they love it. But if you don’t fear them, if you stay brave, they won’t show up. They can’t stand bravery.”
Dana’s eyes widened, the fear momentarily replaced with awe. “But… how can I become fearless?” she asked, her voice small, as though the idea seemed impossible.
Alex paused, thinking deeply, then a mischievous grin spread across his face. “What if we watch some horror movies?” he suggested, his tone light but filled with purpose.
“Horror movies?” Dana blinked, surprised. “I don’t know… I don’t think Miss Margaret would agree.”
Alex leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as his eyes darted around the room. “She doesn’t need to know,” he said with a wink. “It’ll be our little secret. What do you say?”
Dana hesitated for only a moment before nodding, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. The fear in her eyes softened, replaced by a trust in Alex, a belief that with him beside her, no monster could touch her.
And just like that, the memory faded.
Gale found himself back in the suffocating darkness of his own nightmare. The twisted, broken version of himself loomed over him still, its sunken eyes reflecting his deepest failures. But the memory had left a mark on his heart—a tiny flicker of warmth in the cold grip of fear.
He didn’t have horror movies. He didn’t even know what those were. But he had something else. He had willpower. He had fought for his friends, for the people who stood beside him, even when the weight of his mistakes threatened to crush him. And now, as he faced the embodiment of his terror, he realized that it fed on his fear the same way Dana’s imaginary monsters had.
Alex had been right. Monsters thrived on fear. But bravery—bravery was their bane.
The memory ended, but its lesson remained. Gale didn’t need to be fearless. He didn’t need to be invincible. He just needed to stand, even when fear threatened to devour him.
With a sudden burst of will, Gale forced himself to move, rolling to the side just as the nightmare’s clawed hand swiped at where he had been. His heart still raced, fear still gnawed at the edges of his mind, but he clung to that spark—the reminder that fear did not control him.
Scrambling to his feet, he summoned his psionic book, the pages fluttering wildly as images of his own worst moments flickered through his mind. The nightmares of his childhood, the terrors he had faced in battle, and the crushing guilt that had haunted him for so long. He forced himself to relive them, to confront them head-on.
The nightmare before him grew more monstrous, but the more Gale embraced his fear, the less terrifying it became. The twisted, broken version of himself that loomed over him wasn’t the embodiment of his failure—it was the embodiment of his doubt, of his reluctance to forgive himself.
“I am not done,” he whispered, his voice shaky but resolute.
The nightmare, sensing the shift, snarled in frustration, lunging at him once more. But Gale was ready this time. He thrust his hand forward, summoning whatever magic he could muster. The Weave flickered, uncertain, but it responded to his will. Thunderwave erupted from his palm, the blast of raw energy pushing the nightmare back. It stumbled, its grotesque form shimmering and flickering, but it did not disappear.
Gale’s heart pounded, his limbs still shaking from the strain, but he stood his ground. He could feel the nightmare feeding off his fear, but he also felt something else—a strength, small but growing, the will to fight back. His friends—Tav, Karlach, Astarion, Wyll, Shadowheart ,Alex ,even Lae'zel—they hadn’t given up on him. They were still fighting, still believing in him.
He would not betray that trust.
“I am not… the man I was,” Gale said through gritted teeth, his voice gaining strength. “I will not be destroyed by fear.”
The nightmare screeched, lunging at him again, but this time, Gale was ready. He lifted his hand toward the sky, and the clouds overhead darkened in response. Thunder rumbled, and with a fierce shout, he called down lightning from the heavens. The bolt struck the nightmare, searing through its body, causing it to convulse violently.
The creature writhed, its form distorting further, no longer able to maintain its hold on Gale’s fear. Its body flickered, shifting between monstrous forms, its strength wavering as Gale’s resolve grew.
“You are nothing,” Gale spat, his voice filled with quiet defiance, “but a shadow.”
With a final surge of energy, Gale summoned the storm once more. Lightning crackled around him, the wind howling as he directed the full force of his magic into the nightmare. The creature screamed, its form unraveling, disintegrating into black ichor that splattered across the ground.
As the storm’s fury faded and silence settled, Gale stood tall, his chest heaving with exhaustion but his mind clear. The terror was gone, dissolved back into the abyss from which it came.
Gale’s breath steadied, he had won this battle. He wasn’t the man consumed by failure anymore. He was stronger than that. He was more than his mistakes.
_______________________
Karlach’s heart pounded in her chest, not with power, but with fear. She tried to summon her strength, the fiery rage that had always fueled her, the power that made her feel invincible in battle. But when she opened her mouth to unleash her infernal fire, nothing came. Her breath caught in her throat, dry and hollow, as if her flames had been extinguished from the inside out.
Her hand reached for her war axe, the weapon that had never failed her, but when she tried to lift it, it felt impossibly heavy. The axe, a symbol of her strength, now seemed like a burden she could no longer bear. Her limbs shook, muscles strained, but she could barely keep it from slipping through her fingers. Her heart—her dragon heart, the core of her power—was beating wildly in her chest, but it was erratic, unsteady, like an engine on the verge of breaking down. She could feel the power within her, the flames that she had once controlled, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t ignite herself. She couldn’t transform. She couldn’t fight.
And all the while, Zariel sneered, her cold eyes locked on Karlach. “You’ll never be free,” Zariel whispered, her voice venomous. “You are nothing without me. A soldier without a master. A weapon without a wielder. Just an empty shell.”
The chains rattled again and like angry snakes lashed to her , pulling her closer to Zariel. Karlach could feel her knees weakening, her body betraying her. The fake Karlach’s engine roared, burning with fierce fire, the flames licking out from the furnace of its chest as it approached, the metal clanking with each step. It was her, but twisted, controlled, a mockery of everything she had fought to become.
Karlach’s eyes burned with unshed tears. This wasn’t her. She had escaped hell. She had survived. She wasn’t a slave anymore. And yet, here she was, trapped in her own nightmare, helpless, powerless. She could hear the clanking of the chains, the weight of Zariel’s dominance pressing down on her, crushing her.
The fake Karlach raised its axe, the fiery blade burning bright, poised to strike. It wasn’t just a weapon; it was the embodiment of everything Karlach feared she would become—nothing more than a tool of destruction, a monster forged in the fires of hell.
The first blow came down hard, not on her body but on her spirit. The axe connected, not with flesh, but with her mind. Every strike was a blow to her will, a chisel carving away at her sense of self. The nightmare swung again and again, each hit driving deeper into her, leaving no visible wounds but battering her mind. She felt her strength crumbling beneath the relentless assault, her doubts seeping through every crack.
"You’re nothing without me," Zariel’s voice echoed, growing louder with each strike. "A slave to rage, a beast unworthy of salvation."
Karlach's knees buckled as she staggered under the weight of it all. Her hands shook. The chains clanked with every movement, the cold, biting metal a constant reminder of her captivity, of the life she once lived as a soldier in hell’s army. The fake Karlach’s furnace roared, flames licking at the air, feeding on her despair.
The nightmare’s voice taunted her, whispering the darkest truths she feared—what if she was nothing but this engine of destruction? What if the rage and fire that consumed her was all she was destined for?
But then… she remembered something, a spark that refused to die. Alex. His face flashed in her mind, clear as day. She remembered watching him, just a few moments ago , walking straight into his nightmare, not with fear, but with a fury that refused to bow. His rage had been his weapon. It wasn’t about hiding from the nightmare; it was about facing it head-on, tearing through the fear with everything he had.
“No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible at first. The nightmare’s axe came down again, but this time, she stood her ground. “No!” Karlach’s voice grew, a raw, guttural growl rising from the depths of her soul. She gritted her teeth, as she glared up at her twisted reflection.
“I am not this,” Karlach snarled, her eyes blazing with defiance. “I am not just a machine. I am not your puppet!” Her legs shook as she forced herself to rise, and rise she did. The weight of her war axe no longer felt like an anchor, but like an extension of her fury.
Zariel’s laughter rang in her ears, cold and venomous, but it only fueled Karlach’s rage. Her muscles ached, her heart roared in her chest like a beast fighting to break free, so she unleashed the dragon within.
With a primal roar, Karlach swung her axe, not at the nightmare, but at the chains that bound her. The metal clanged, sparks flying from the force of the impact. For a moment, nothing happened, and her heart clenched in her chest. But then, with a deafening crack, one of the links snapped.
Karlach’s breath caught, hope surging through her veins like fire. She wasn’t powerless. She could still fight.
The fake Karlach lunged, its engine roaring, flames spewing from its chest. But Karlach didn’t retreat. She stepped forward, her grip steady now, her resolve unbreakable. The fear, the doubt—it all fell away as she raised her axe, her voice ringing out in a battle cry that reverberated through the nightmare.
“You don’t own me!” Karlach roared, her voice echoing like thunder. Their axes met in a violent clash, sparks flying as fire met steel. The impact reverberated through her bones, but Karlach didn’t back down. She pushed forward, step by step, her muscles screaming with effort. The fire in the nightmare’s chest burned, but Karlach’s heart—the heart gifted to her —now roared with a power even greater.
“I am not your slave anymore!” Her words were a war cry, a declaration, as her axe slammed into the chains once more. The metal groaned and cracked, the pressure building until, with one final swing, the chains shattered. The broken links fell to the ground with a deafening crash, and Karlach stood, her chest heaving, the flames in her eyes burning brighter than ever.
The fake Karlach staggered back, its form flickering like a dying flame. It was losing its grip, the control that Zariel had once held over her now slipping through its fingers. Without the chains to bind her, the nightmare was nothing but a shadow.
Zariel’s sneer faltered as Karlach stood tall, her war axe now a blazing symbol of her defiance. Her heart still roared, not with fear, but with power. With courage.
“Go fuck yourself,” Karlach said, her voice steady, unwavering. She stared down Zariel, her gaze unflinching, the fire in her heart a flame that no chains could ever contain. “Bitch.”
Karlach’s griped tight her war axe, her knuckles white, her muscles straining as she summoned every ounce of strength she had . Her dragon heart pounded like a war drum in her chest, the heat radiating from her core as rage and fear intertwined, fueling her. This was it. The moment she would break free—not just from Zariel, but from the nightmare that had haunted her .
With a roar that shook the very air around her, she hurled the axe with all her might, every fiber of her being behind the throw. The weapon spun through the air, a blazing arc of vengeance, and when it struck, the world seemed to shatter.
A deafening explosion ripped through the nightmare, the impact sending shockwaves that rattled the very ground beneath her feet. For a brief moment, everything was consumed by the blinding light and the roar of destruction
As the debris began to settle, a heavy silence fell over the battlefield. Karlach stood there, her chest heaving, her breath ragged as she lowered her hand, eyes still wide from the intensity of it all. The dust swirled in the air like smoke from a fire, but there was no more heat, no more flame. Just... stillness.
Where the fake Karlach and Zariel had once loomed, there was now nothing but a dark, murky puddle. The twisted figures, the burning engine, the chains—they had dissolved into the ground, leaving behind only the remnants of a nightmare. The fear that had once threatened to consume her was gone, snuffed out as if it had never existed.
Her heart still roared, but now it was the sound of triumph. She was free—not just from Zariel, but from the fear that had held her down for so long.