Turning to Glut, the Duergar-Myconid hybrid, Alex spoke telepathically. His words rippled through the air like a faint, broken whisper, almost melancholic in their vulnerability. 'I need to meld with you.'
Glut’s green, luminescent eyes studied Alex with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
His voice, reverberated inside Alex’s mind. 'Hm. Why?'
Alex hesitated, his thoughts heavy as he allowed himself to open up. 'My soul is damaged. The transformation...' his voice faltered, the weight of everything he'd endured creeping into his words, '...it took more out of me than I expected. I need to be back at full strength. As fast as possible.'
Glut's gaze softened, a flicker of empathy flashing in his otherwise somber features. 'Then lead the way.'
They walked in silence, until they found a secluded chamber tucked far from the noise and distractions of the others. The walls, slick with moss and creeping vines, shimmered faintly under the light of distant fungi. Every drip of condensation falling from the ceiling seemed to echo in the quiet, creating an almost otherworldly ambiance—a fitting place for the intimate ritual they were about to perform.
Shadow, the dark hunter Alex had created stood nearby, a swirl of misty darkness that pulsed with its own silent energy. Alex glanced at the shadowy figure and recalled the last time he and Glut had melded. Marcus, had been with them then, blessed with dark powers by Ketheric Thorm. Marcus didn’t survive the radiant explosion that Alex had unleashed during that meld. The power had been too much, consuming Marcus in an overwhelming burst of light, reducing him to nothing but ash.
'Get out of this room,' Alex commanded telepathically, sending the image of Marcus’s searing demise to Shadow. 'You don’t want to be anywhere near me.'
The dark hunter obeyed without hesitation, dissolving into the walls, slipping beyond the Tower's reach like a shadow fading in twilight. Alex could feel him lingering, a distant presence, but far enough away not to interfere.
With Shadow gone, Glut extended his hand, tendrils of fungus twisting from his palm like living vines. There was something both alien and comforting about it. Alex knew he could trust him with this.
As Alex took Glut’s hand, his fingers sinking into the soft, yielding flesh of the Myconid’s palm, his consciousness erupted. The world around him didn’t just fade—it shattered. Reality fragmented into shards, and those shards spun around him, swirling in a psychedelic vortex of color, sound, and sensation.
His mind expanded beyond the limits of his body, stretching into a vast, endless expanse where time seemed to slow and melt away. He could feel the life around him—every blade of grass, every root crawling through the earth, every insect’s wings beating in the distant forests. The world was alive with energy, pulsating in rhythms too ancient for words, too primal for thought.
For a brief moment, Alex was everything and nothing. His senses overwhelmed as he stretched beyond the boundaries of existence, touching the void, the stars, and the souls of countless beings. It was terrifying, intoxicating, and utterly beautiful.
Through it all, Glut remained an anchor, a steady presence in the swirling chaos. More experienced in these melds, Glut’s mind acted as a guide, keeping Alex from being swept away in the overwhelming tide of sensations. But then ,Glut could sense darkness lurking within Alex—the hunger for control, the yearning for more power. It simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to rise. And Glut, with his quiet strength, reminded him of the balance he needed to maintain.
'Do not lose yourself,' Glut’s voice echoed through the meld, a gentle but firm warning. His tone wasn’t accusatory, but protective.
Alex pushed through the storm of his own mind, allowing Glut’s essence to flow into him, to heal the parts of him that had been torn asunder. He could feel the cracks in his soul, the fractures from the transformation, slowly beginning to mend. His strength, though diminished, was slowly returning. The melding was working.
When the ritual ended, Alex gasped for breath. His body was drenched in sweat, every muscle trembling from the strain. His vision was blurred, but the sense of relief that washed over him was undeniable. He was stronger now. Not fully restored, but enough to stand, to fight, to continue.
Three hours. That’s how much time he spent melding.
He summoned his radiant magic, trying to call it forth as he once had. But as he tried to channel it, he could feel the struggle deep within his soul. The energy came slower now, flickering weakly. His soul screamed in protest, the radiant power reduced to a pale imitation of what it had once been. Still, he pushed, gritting his teeth until finally, a small, wavering pulse of light formed in his palm.
But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough—not like before.
The light flickered and died, leaving him in the dim glow of the moss-covered chamber. His hand fell to his side, and for a long moment, Alex just stood there, staring at the ground, breathing heavily, wrestling with the weight of his reality.
He wasn't whole. Not truly. The meld had saved him from complete collapse, but it hadn’t restored him to the radiant force he once was. The light inside him was dulled, dimmed, and Alex knew that whatever lay ahead in Baldur’s Gate, he would face it without the divine power he once wielded so effortlessly.
Glut, sensing the shift in Alex, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a gesture of silent solidarity. "You are not alone in this," Glut’s deep voice reverberated through the stillness, carrying both warmth and gravity.
Alex looked up at his morose companion and gave a faint, tired smile.
His gaze drifted from Glut to the white raven perched silently before him. The bird’s eyes gleamed with a sharp, unsettling intelligence, as though it was studying him, calculating. For a moment, neither moved, the room filled with tension as Alex reached out—a tendril of psionic energy extending from his mind toward the raven’s consciousness.
But the raven, sensing the intrusion, let out a harsh, piercing caw that echoed through the chamber. With a flap of its wings, it vanished into a nearby shadow, the darkness swallowing it whole as if it had never been there. Alex's eyes lingered on the spot where the bird disappeared, a quiet unease settling in his chest. Then, with a sigh, he turned away and walked to the corner of the room.
He summoned Phalar Aluve, and the sword materialized in his hand, its soft hum vibrating through his bones. The blade sang to him—a sweet, mournful melody that resonated deeply within his fractured soul. The song was like a balm, soothing the jagged edges of his spirit.
Glut, sitting silently beside him, closed his eyes. His red plated armor began to glow softly, radiating with a fluorescent, ever-shifting array of colors. It was mesmerizing, like watching an alien sunset unfold across the contours of his body. Alex followed his companion’s lead, closing his own eyes, allowing the exhaustion to wash over him. He drifted off to sleep, the last sound he heard was the sword’s gentle lullaby, blending into the ambient hum of Glut’s bioluminescent armor.
Since the day he woke up in the guise of Alex Mercer, he had a dream for the first time.
----------------------------------------
In the dream, Alex awoke before a blazing fire, its warm glow casting dancing shadows around him. His attention was immediately drawn to a woman with long, silvery hair that shimmered in the firelight. She moved with an otherworldly grace, her naked form swaying rhythmically to an ancient, primal melody. She was beautiful, powerful.
Eilistraee.
The goddess of the drow paused in her dance, her radiant face turning toward Alex with a smile both inviting and mysterious. Her outstretched hand beckoned him to join her. Alex tried to rise, but his legs felt like they were made of lead, heavy and unresponsive. Eilistraee’s smile deepened as she approached him, her touch light as a feather, taking his hand. The moment her fingers curled around his, a brilliant, silvery light enveloped him, and suddenly, his body felt weightless, freed from the burdens of his waking world.
Together they danced, spinning around the fire in perfect harmony. The flames crackled and popped, casting sparks into the night sky, where the stars and moon watched over them like silent guardians. Time became meaningless, stretching into eternity as they twirled beneath the heavens, their movements as natural as breathing.
The dream was pure joy, pure freedom. For the first time in a long while, Alex felt whole, unburdened by his past, by his power, by the scars that marred his soul. The weight of his choices, the darkness inside him, seemed to fade into the background. And in that moment, with Eilistraee by his side, Alex felt like he belonged to something far greater than himself.
----------------------------------------
Alex's eyes blinked open, the dream slipping away like smoke in the wind. The warmth of the fire was gone, replaced by the cold stone of the Tower’s chamber. The dream had ended, but its lingering comfort remained. His soul, though still scarred, ached a little less.
He glanced at Glut, still resting beside him, his colorful armor dimmed now in sleep. Alex checked his internal clock. He had been asleep for five hours. He stretched, taking in a deep breath, feeling the tightness in his chest release. He wasn’t completely healed, but he felt better—stronger.
Quietly, Alex stood and left the room, letting Glut rest a little longer. He made his way to the main hall of the Towers, where many of his friends had already gathered. The morning light filtered through cracks in the walls, illuminating the room in a soft, golden glow.
Astarion sat on a low bench, casually reading a book. Lae'zel, was playing a game with the githyanki boy . Across the room, Gale was deep in conversation with Karlach and Wyll, though Alex noted Wyll looked thinner, his eyes distant, as though lost in thought. Shadowheart was speaking with Isobel and Aylin, their conversation quiet but intense. Ellyka and Alfira were nearby, surrounded by a small group of harpers and tieflings. Even Zevlor was present, his eyes softening as they met Alex’s.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"Good morning, everyone," Alex greeted, his voice cutting through the quiet chatter.
Gale looked up, offering a warm smile. "Ah, Alex. We were wondering where you disappeared to."
"I slept in one of the abandoned rooms," Alex explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "I really needed to relax for a bit."
Gale chuckled, nodding in understanding. "We all needed some rest. But now that you’re up, what’s the plan for the day?"
Alex paused, his gaze sweeping over the group. "Let's gather everyone first."
Slowly, their companions assembled in the main hall, their attention fixed on Alex. He could feel their eyes on him—each one trusting him to lead, to guide them through the dangers ahead.
As he prepared to speak, a swirl of psionic energy formed above his head, shimmering like an ethereal mirage. The memory was not his own—it was one he had ripped from Ketheric Thorm’s mind. The images began to play out in front of him like a projection.
The projection flickered, revealing three figures standing in the place where Alex had fought Myrkul. Shadows shifted around them, and the atmosphere was thick with tension, like a storm on the verge of breaking.
The first figure to emerge was a man with short, dark hair, styled in an artful, chaotic mess that only accentuated his dangerous charm. His face, though still handsome, bore the lines of age and battle, creased with worry and scarred from conflicts long past. His attire spoke of wealth and power—extravagant, bordering on opulent. His open collar revealed intricate gilded dragons curling across the fabric, and his gauntlets gleamed with golden filigree. His bright red, pointed boots caught the dim light, making them stand out like blood-stained weapons. It was impossible to ignore his presence.
"Gortash," Karlach growled, her fists clenched at her sides, as though holding herself back from launching at him.
The second figure, standing beside him, exuded a far more sinister presence. Her skin was pale, a sickly blue-grey, yet across it danced swirling plumes of red, undulating like smoke on the wind. Her dull grey eyes were framed with dark, heavy eyeliner, giving her an expression of both cruelty and apathy. Her hair, a straw-colored mass of thick braids, reached down to her knees, twisted in a manner resembling a deadly flail. Her blood-red armor was rigid, chitinous, and sharp, every edge designed to inflict pain. Upon her head sat a silver tiara, intricate in its design, the centerpiece shaped like a supplicant figure, bound and bent in eternal submission, crowned by a single crimson gem that pulsed faintly. She was a vision of violence and madness.
"Orin..." Tav whispered, his voice low, strained, as if just saying her name hurt him.
The sight of her seemed to send a shiver through the group. Astarion, whispered under his breath, "Those are some nice clothes, armor... I like the color," his eyes glinting with dark amusement.
But the third figure was the one that broke the tense silence—Wyll’s father, Ulder Ravengard. The once-proud Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate was now bound in chains, used as a living throne for Orin. His armor, once silver and gleaming with the symbol of the Flaming Fist emblazoned on his chest, was now dulled, tarnished with defeat and humiliation. His face, though strong, bore the weight of exhaustion and shame.
"Father!" Wyll’s voice rang out, filled with shock and anger, cutting through the stillness. His eyes burned with a fury that words could not contain.
In response, Gortash turned his head lazily, his expression smug as he regarded Ketheric Thorm. "You said it was under control," Gortash said, his voice dripping with condescension.
"It isn’t you I answer to, Gortash," Ketheric snarled back, his voice hard as iron.
Gortash smiled, a slow, mocking grin, and spread his arms wide. "Oh, the General’s voice. Is this where we salute?" he taunted, the mockery stinging.
Orin, meanwhile, smiled too—her expression feral, like a predator toying with prey. She spoke in a voice that mimicked Gortash’s mockery, though hers carried an edge of bloodlust. "Salute, yes... with cleavers through his blood-starved flesh. See how it crawls with failure, like flies on the carcass of carrion."
Ketheric’s patience snapped, and his face twisted in fury. He raised a gauntleted finger towards Orin, his words coming out in a snarl. "You forget yourself, Orin. I have played my part."
Gortash tilted his head, amused by his anger. "You’ve built an army for our masters, true enough," he replied, his voice laced with dark humor. "But what of the Astral Prism?" His gaze shifted, predatory. Shadowheart, instinctively tightened her grip on the satchel, the weight of the Prism suddenly much heavier.
Gortash’s smile never wavered. "Is it with that abomination that turned you into dust?" His voice was smooth, insidious, like poison slipping into the air. He didn't need to say Alex's name. Everyone knew who he meant.
Ketheric’s expression darkened. "It didn’t have it," he growled. "But the one who has it is headed to me." His voice carried both threat and desperation.
Gortash’s laugh was soft, cruel. "Such incompetence." His words cut like a blade. "Perhaps we never should have dug your daughter up."
At that, Isobel’s body tensed, her breath catching in her throat. Aylin, sensing her distress, gently took her hand, intertwining their fingers as a silent gesture of comfort. The fury in Isobel’s eyes simmered, but she stayed silent, trusting in Aylin’s calm strength.
Ketheric bared his teeth, his rage boiling over. His fist shot up, ready to strike Gortash, stopping mere inches from his face. But Gortash remained unflinching, his mocking smile never leaving his lips.
"So you haven’t lost your edge," Gortash purred. "But you’re still not as sharp as Orin is, I wager."
Ketheric’s eyes flickered to Orin, and there she was—standing beside him, the red dagger aimed at his throat. The dagger glowed faintly in the dim light. It was a weapon of pure malice—a curved blade with a wicked, flowing design, crimson as fresh blood, arched like a predatory claw ready to strike. At its core was a circular guard, jagged and black, its hollow center housing a dimly pulsing gem. The hilt was dark, twisted, as though the weapon had been shaped by dark magic itself. Its presence radiated a chilling, palpable menace, as if it had been crafted not just to kill, but to savor every moment of it.
Ketheric’s eyes narrowed, his breath heavy with fury and fear, but he did not move.
The projection crackled and flickered, the tension within the room mirroring the deadly exchanges unfolding before them.
"The Slayer against the Undying One. That would be fun to see," Gortash said with a sly grin, his words tinged with sinister amusement. His eyes gleamed as he looked toward Ketheric, clearly enjoying the macabre tension brewing between them.
Orin’s nose twitched as she leaned closer to Ketheric, taking a slow, deliberate sniff of the air around him. A sick smile crept onto her face, a mix of anticipation and madness. She was unhinged, teetering on the edge of bloodlust.
"That bitch is making my scales stand on end," Karlach muttered under her breath, her voice taut with disgust and unease, her muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. Even her fiery temperament seemed to pale before Orin's deranged presence.
Orin's eyes glazed over for a moment as she spoke, her words spilling out in disjointed excitement. "His crypt-breath sings to my sinews... againagainagainagain!" Her twisted giggling filled the space, a horrible sound that grated against the silence. But just as quickly, her face turned cold, her mirth dying in an instant, replaced with a scowl. "But he must lead the murder march to Baldur’s Grave."
Gortash’s gaze turned to Ketheric, his voice measured and smooth, masking the danger in his words. "If the weapon is truly in your grasp, Ketheric, might I suggest closing your fist?" His smile was one of calculated menace. "Orin and I can wait for you no longer. The plan proceeds—we’re going to the city, and we expect you to follow. Army and weapons in tow."
Ketheric’s eyes flickered to the ground, the twisted, pulsating floor of flesh beneath his feet, as Orin and Gortash strode past him. His fury was palpable, but he said nothing, his silence screaming of betrayal and resentment.
As they moved, Gortash raised his right hand, adorned with a gleaming gauntlet of intricately forged steel, a jewel set in the center of its back. The gem glowed with a sinister, violet light as he spoke. "The Edict of Bane," Gortash declared, his voice filled with dark authority.
Orin, in turn, lifted her wicked red dagger, the same dagger that had been aimed at Ketheric’s throat only moments before. "The Lash of Bhaal," she hissed, her gem flaring to life with a baleful crimson glow.
Before them, the brine pool began to churn, massive tentacles of flesh and sinew rising from the depths like some ancient, slumbering horror awakening. From the water, a vast, pulsating mass emerged—the Elder Brain. Its grotesque form shimmered with power, its massive crown embedded in it's flesh, Karsus’s Crown, which hummed ominously as though sensing the presence of the three powerful mortals.
"Tsk’va. Hta’zith chraith," Lae’zel muttered in disgust, her eyes narrowing as she regarded the towering abomination before them.
Ketheric took a deep breath and stepped forward, the gem embedded in his chest plate starting to glow with a deep, deathly light. "The Testament of Myrkul!" he shouted, his voice resonating with a grim power that made even the Elder Brain still for a moment.
The crown atop the Elder Brain seemed to respond, its pulsing quickening.
Gale, standing among the others, couldn’t take his eyes off the crown. His fingers twitched with desire. "Look at that crown," he whispered, barely audible to those around him. "It radiates with power unlike anything I’ve ever seen... to have it... to hold... if only I could..." His voice trailed off, his longing for power clear.
Jaheira, standing next to him, scoffed softly. "An Elder Brain... one of the cruelest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals," she said, her tone filled with disgust.
Gortash let out a soft sigh, his tension visibly dissipating as the control over the Elder Brain solidified. "There we are," he murmured. "It wouldn’t do to fight in front of our guests." His tone was dripping with mock civility as he watched the massive tendrils of the Brain slither toward Ulder Ravengard.
Wyll’s breath hitched, his eyes narrowing as he watched his father, bound and helpless, subjected to the horrors unfolding before him. His hand clenched at his side, knuckles white with barely contained rage.
"Behold, Duke Ravengard: the Absolute!" Gortash proclaimed with a triumphant sneer, his voice echoing in the grotesque chamber.
"Helm preserve us..." Ulder murmured, his voice trembling as the tendril paused mere inches from his face. His horror was palpable, the helplessness of a proud man broken before an unimaginable force.
Orin knelt beside him, her voice a sickly, mocking whisper in his ear, loud enough for all to hear. "You wag your word-flap in vain, Ulderling. Once the worm holds the whip, your shredded flesh will serve us."
Then, with disturbing tenderness, she grabbed his head, forcing it still as the tendril released a wriggling tadpole. The creature slithered across his face, seeking, before burrowing around the eye. Ulder gasped, his body jerking as the parasite forced its way into his brain. The room filled with horrified silence, broken only by the soft gasps of those watching the cruel display.
"Fucking bitch!" Wyll roared, his voice cracking with fury and heartbreak, unable to bear the sight of his father’s violation.
Ulder’s eyes rolled back, his body going limp as unconsciousness claimed him.
Gortash clapped his hands, a wicked smile spreading across his face as if nothing more than a performance had just taken place. "Now!" he declared with unsettling cheer. "It’s really time we were going." He moved to Orin’s side, waving dismissively at Ketheric. "We will empty this place and begin the march. You may catch up with the army once you’ve retrieved the weapon. And Ketheric—do try not to sulk. You’re supposed to be the fearsome General—come to conquer the city."
Ketheric’s scowl deepened, his rage barely contained as he stormed away, clearly humiliated and furious.
"And I," Gortash continued, his voice dripping with smug confidence as the space around him distorted, "am the hero who will save it." With a wave of his hand, he, Orin, and Ulder vanished in a ripple of warped reality.
The projection sputtered and then blinked out, leaving the room in a suffocating silence.
"Holy shit," Karlach finally muttered, breaking the tension with a voice full of disbelief.
"What are we waiting for? We must head to Baldur’s Gate immediately!" Wyll’s voice was a mixture of urgency and raw emotion, his face pale and strained with grief and fury.
"We will," Alex said softly, his gaze steady, calming the storm that brewed in Wyll’s heart. "But first... I want to hold Minthara’s burial."
Wyll’s fire suddenly cooled, his clenched fists slowly relaxing as he nodded in understanding.