Karlach cracked her knuckles loudly, as she rolled her shoulders. Her grin was wicked, a predator’s smile full of sharp confidence. "I was itching for a fight," she growled, her voice laced with anticipation. "Let’s see how smug you are after I knock some teeth out." She didn’t even bother reaching for her battleaxe strapped across her back. For small fries like these, her fists would suffice.
Zenovia and her mercenaries stiffened at the challenge. The high half-elf woman placed a hand on the hilt of her longsword, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took a step forward. But then, just as suddenly, she stopped, her brows furrowing as if struck by an intrusive thought.
"I forgot to check the lock's carriage," she muttered, her tone uncharacteristically uncertain. Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched away, leaving her baffled companions in her wake.
The gnome mercenary exchanged a puzzled glance with his human counterpart, their confusion evident. After a moment of hesitation, they followed Zenovia, leaving without so much as a backward glance.
As the sound of retreating footsteps faded, Karlach let out an exaggerated groan, her fists unclenching as she planted her hands on her hips. "What the hell was that?" she asked, shooting a suspicious glance at Alex.
Some of the others turned to Alex as well, their expressions curious. Shadowheart raised a questioning brow, while Astarion smirked knowingly, his sharp eyes catching the smug tilt of Alex’s lips.
"Don’t look at me," Alex said, his voice laced with mock innocence. But the glimmer in his eyes betrayed him, and Karlach let out a quiet huff, muttering something under her breath.
Before the group could press him further, Arfur made an awkward shuffle backward, clearly hoping to slip away unnoticed. His elaborate doublet swished dramatically as he turned to flee, but Alex’s hand shot out, landing heavily on his shoulder like an iron shackle.
Arfur froze, his face twisting in a grimace. "Ouch! Let me go! I bruise easily!" he whimpered, attempting to slap Alex’s hand away. His efforts were futile; it was like hitting solid stone.
"Not so fast," Alex said, his voice calm but unyielding. His grip tightened slightly, causing Arfur to yelp like a frightened animal. "First, you’re going to let the family stay. You’ve got more than enough room in this mansion, don’t you?"
Arfur squirmed under the pressure, his face turning a blotchy shade of red. "Ahhh! All right, fine! They can stay! Are you happy now?" he shrieked, his knees buckling slightly.
Only then did Alex loosen his grip, though his hand remained firmly on Arfur’s shoulder. "Good," Alex said, his tone measured but firm. "But we’re not done yet. Let’s go check the basement, shall we? You seem awfully concerned about it."
At the mention of the basement, all the color drained from Arfur’s face. He paled so dramatically that even Karlach took notice, her fiery grin widening. "Oh, he’s definitely hiding something," she said, her voice practically purring with excitement.
"He’s dead," Astarion murmured, his voice a low, amused whisper in Shadowheart’s ear.
"Without a doubt," Shadowheart replied, smirking.
Alex gave Arfur a nudge, and the man stumbled forward, his trembling legs barely carrying him as they entered the mansion. Inside, the group was greeted by signs of life. Clothes were haphazardly strewn in one corner, a makeshift clothesline stretched across the room with garments drying in the faint warmth of a fire. Sleeping bags were tucked near the walls, their wear and tear telling the story of a family clinging to survival.
The refugee man stepped forward, his posture cautious but his voice steady. "Not sure why you stood up for us," he said, his gaze darting between Alex and his companions, "but I won’t pretend I’m not grateful. Thank you. May Torm keep you safe."
Alex gave him a small nod, his expression softening briefly as he offered the man’s wife and daughter a warm smile. The girl clung tightly to her mother’s leg, her wide eyes watching Alex with a mixture of fear and curiosity. But as he turned back to Arfur, his face hardened once more, all business.
"Where’s the entrance to the basement?" Alex asked, his tone brooking no argument.
Arfur gulped audibly, his trembling hand pointing toward a set of double doors. "Up ahead," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
The group pushed open the doors to reveal what appeared to be a craftsman’s workshop. Tools of all kinds lined the racks on the walls—a hammer, a saw, a wood chisel, and more. Shelves filled with books and scattered papers created a chaotic yet industrious atmosphere.
Arfur hesitated, then gestured weakly to a large wooden crate in the corner. "The entrance is under that crate," he said, his voice shaking.
Without hesitation, Karlach strode forward, her fiery presence dominating the room. With a grunt, she pushed the crate aside as if it weighed nothing, revealing a hidden hatch beneath. She squatted down, her hand gripping the hatch’s handle.
But before she could open it, a soft, whimsical melody filled the air. The group turned, their gazes landing on Astarion, who was holding a small, ornate music box in his hands.
"What?" Astarion said innocently, his crimson eyes glinting with amusement. He casually slipped the music box into his pocket, his smirk widening.
"That was mine!" Arfur protested weakly, his voice cracking.
"It was," Astarion replied with a playful flourish, clearly enjoying himself.
Alex gave Arfur a small shove, snapping the man out of his sputtering indignation. Reluctantly, Arfur descended the ladder into the darkness below.
With a flick of Alex’s wrist, the iron sconces mounted on the basement walls erupted into flames, their golden light spilling across the darkened chamber. The illumination revealed a vast room stacked with crates, barrels, and bottles, their contents concealed but their arrangement deliberate. Some were pressed neatly against the walls, while others were piled haphazardly in the center of the room, creating narrow pathways between them.
As the group took their first steps deeper into the basement, Astarion’s keen eyes caught something. "Careful," he warned, raising a hand to stop the others. His pale finger pointed toward a horizontal rope strung low between two crates. "This place is trapped. And poorly, I might add. A child could spot that."
The group’s attention turned sharply to Arfur, whose face was glistening with sweat in the dim light. His trembling hands clutched at his doublet as if the fine fabric might offer him some kind of protection.
"Turn them off," Alex commanded, his voice cold and unyielding.
Arfur nodded quickly, his head bobbing like a puppet’s. He stumbled to the wall, pressing a brick with shaking fingers. A sharp click echoed through the room, followed by the sound of a mechanism disengaging. The rope snapped free and fell to the ground with a quiet thud.
As they proceeded further into the basement, the air grew heavier, the faint smell of sulfur and chemicals lingering. The flickering torchlight revealed something that stopped Karlach in her tracks: a large crate brimming with fireworks, their colorful wrappings unmistakable.
"Imagine how this would’ve gone if we’d triggered the traps," she mused, her lips curving into a mischievous grin. "Hey, can we take some? You know, for fun?"
Wyll arched a brow at her, clearly unimpressed. "What would you even do with fireworks, Karlach?"
Her grin widened as she shrugged. "I dunno, Wyll. Maybe I just want to watch things explode in pretty colors for once instead of red blood and bone shards."
Alex chuckled softly at the exchange, touching one of the crates. A faint, shimmering purple energy enveloped the fireworks for a moment before vanishing. The crate was gone, stored safely in whatever strange pocket dimension Alex used for his possessions.
"Thanks," Karlach said, giving Alex a playful nudge on the shoulder. He returned a thumbs-up, his expression lightening briefly before his attention was drawn to the far corner of the basement.
They approached what appeared to be another workspace, elevated slightly on a wooden platform. The area was neatly arranged, a stark contrast to the chaotic piles elsewhere. Stuffed teddy bears sat in tidy rows on one side, their button eyes gleaming eerily in the firelight. A desk stood at the center, cluttered with papers, books, and small tools. Crates surrounded the workspace, some bearing faint scorch marks and others sealed tightly.
Alex’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer. Without warning, his right arm shifted, flesh warping and contorting into a razor-sharp blade. The motion was swift, a blur of movement that left no time for Arfur to react. The blade plunged through the man’s back, emerging cleanly from his chest.
Arfur gasped, a pitiful, wheezing sound escaping his lips as dark tendrils sprouted from Alex’s transformed arm. The tendrils enveloped Arfur’s body, wrapping around him like living shadows. Within moments, the man was consumed entirely, his form disintegrating into nothingness.
The group watched in stunned silence as Alex straightened, his arm returning to its normal form. A flood of memories surged through him—Arfur’s thoughts, his plans, his fears—all laid bare.
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"So," Shadowheart said, breaking the heavy silence, her voice tinged with disgust, "he was the one who planted the explosive toys?"
Alex nodded, his face grim as he stepped forward. His fingers brushed across the papers on the desk until he found a folded letter. He opened it and began to read aloud, his voice steady but laced with anger.
"'Gifts for refugees only. Please distribute.'" He paused, his jaw tightening as he held up the paper for the others to see.
"Monstrous," Wyll said quietly, shaking his head in disbelief. "This wasn’t generosity. This was bait for slaughter. Good thing that you killed him."
Alex moved toward an iron chest sitting against the wall. Its surface was blackened and pitted, as though it had been scorched repeatedly. He placed his hands on the lid, his fingers sinking in to the metal like it was dough. With a sharp pull, the chest snapped open, revealing a small pile of gold and another letter tucked among the coins.
Alex unfolded the letter, the crinkling of the paper echoing in the tense silence of the basement. His companions gathered around him, their faces illuminated by the flickering torchlight. The weight of the words hung heavy in the air as he began to read aloud:
"Arfur, package still waiting for you at Felogyr's. You'd better not be late again, or we'll start to wonder if you're really as committed as you claim to be. Pick it up, put it in the teddy bears, make the donation. It couldn't be simpler, really. If it's still here this time tomorrow, we'll stuff you with it. As you well know, we've plenty to spare."
The final sentence lingered like a venomous hiss, twisting in their minds. Shadowheart crossed her arms tightly, her brows furrowed in disgust. "Who was he working with?" she asked, her voice low and edged with anger.
"Followers of Bane," Alex replied, his tone as sharp as the blade that had ended Arfur moments ago. "Arfur didn’t fully realize it—he was too stupid, too blinded by greed to connect the dots. But the people he dealt with, the ones who ordered these explosive teddy bears, were unmistakably Banites. At some point, he met someone with a tattoo of a black hand on their neck. Even then, he didn’t question it."
Karlach’s fists clenched, her knuckles whitening as her tail flicked in frustration. "Cultists," she spat. "Always damned cultists."
"Great," Astarion drawled, rolling his eyes with a dramatic sigh. "Because what’s a day in Baldur’s Gate without running into some fanatics of a dark god?"
Lae’zel's expression twisted into a scowl, her yellow eyes narrowing. "Does the guard of this city serve any purpose, or are they merely ornamental? Such incompetence would never stand among the githyanki."
"They used to serve a purpose," Wyll said quietly, a trace of sorrow in his voice. "Once, they did."
The bitterness in Wyll’s tone was not lost on Alex, who pocketed the letter, his expression hardening with resolve. His voice was steady and commanding as he spoke. "We’ve got a lead. Felogyr’s Fireworks, in the Lower City. Whatever they’re planning, we’re going to find it—and whoever’s behind it will wish they’d never taken the first step down this path."
Karlach turned toward Alex, her jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap. "This has Gortash written all over it, doesn’t it?" she said, her voice trembling with fury.
Alex nodded gravely. "It must be. Gortash is a chosen of Bane, his champion. He thrives on chaos, using instability to strengthen his grip. The plan is clear: distribute these explosive toys among the refugees, create havoc, and then swoop in to 'restore order,' earning praise and consolidating even more power. It’s all a calculated game."
Karlach growled low in her throat, her hands flexing like she was ready to tear Gortash apart with her bare hands. "The bastard. He’s turning innocent people into pawns, just to make himself look like a hero. I swear, Alex, if I get my hands on him—"
"You will ," Alex said, his voice cutting through her fury like steel. "We’ll stop him, Karlach. I promise."
From the shadows, Glut, the myconid companion, spoke in his hollow voice. "A ruler who desires to see his people fight one another... such an act is incomprehensible. Where I come from, discord destroys the colony."
Astarion laughed bitterly, though there was no mirth in the sound. "Not strange in Baldur’s Gate, my fungal friend. You’d be surprised how many people in this city thrive on chaos. Power here isn’t taken by strength alone—it’s stolen, bargained for, and sometimes bought with rivers of blood." He smirked, his crimson eyes glinting in the torchlight as they fell on Wyll. "Isn’t that right, Wyll?"
Wyll met Astarion’s gaze reluctantly, his expression one of quiet anger. "You’re not wrong," he admitted, his voice tight. "The Flaming Fist is supposed to protect this city, but even they’ve been tainted by corruption. It feels like Baldur’s Gate is already half-dead—rotting from the inside out."
Gale, who had remained quiet until now, sighed deeply, his brow furrowing. "It’s not just the city—it’s the people who rule it. Baldur’s Gate has always been a place where ambition outweighs morality. I’ve read stories of its dark history, but standing here, seeing this—" He gestured toward the crates of fireworks and the letter in Alex’s hand. "It’s clear to me why they call it the City of Blood."
The grim truth of his words settled heavily over the group, their silence speaking volumes.
As they turned back toward the ladder, Alex flicked his wrist again, extinguishing the torches with a whispered thought. The basement plunged into darkness once more, but the fire in their hearts burned brighter than ever. The faint sound of Karlach muttering curses about Gortash followed them as they ascended, each step bringing them closer to justice—or vengeance.
After everyone climbed the ladder and stepped into the dimly lit workshop above, Karlach stretched, her shoulders popping audibly as she asked, "Where do we set camp? I’m about ready to pass out."
Astarion, still brushing off the dust from the basement, grinned slyly. "Maybe we should stay here, now that Alex is the 'owner.' I, for one, wouldn’t mind an actual bed for once. "
All eyes turned to him, some skeptical, others annoyed. Alex spoke up before anyone could retort. "The place does have a room upstairs with a rather large bed." His casual statement caused Astarion’s face to light up with a rare, genuine excitement.
Karlach hesitated for a moment before clearing her throat. "Umm… guys… would it be okay if Wyll and I took the bed upstairs?" Her voice was uncharacteristically shy, her usual bravado tempered by the intimate nature of her request.
Everyone's gaze darted to her and Wyll, then to Alex, whose expression remained unreadable. Astarion’s hand twitched, inching toward the hilt of his dagger. The silence stretched until Alex shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, sure. Go ahead."
Astarion gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as if he’d been mortally wounded. "For the record, you are officially my least favorite person in this group now," he huffed, crossing his arms and glaring daggers at Alex. "I hope you can sleep soundly knowing you’ve crushed my dreams."
Karlach laughed, clearly enjoying his theatrics, while Wyll tried to suppress a grin. Lae’zel, however, seized the opportunity to jab at him. "Why so desperate, spawn? I am sure your former master made you sleep in filth for his own amusement." Her tone was sharp, but there was a flicker of morbid curiosity behind her words.
Astarion turned to her slowly, his expression unamused as he raised his middle finger in a pointed gesture. Lae’zel stared at his hand, clearly baffled by the meaning of it. "What is this? A signal of surrender?" she asked, tilting her head.
Shadowheart leaned over, her lips curving into a sly smile as she whispered the explanation into Lae’zel’s ear. The Githyanki warrior blinked, turning her gaze back to Astarion. "This gesture is meant to insult me?" she asked, still puzzled. "How bizarre."
Karlach doubled over laughing, clutching her stomach as her booming voice echoed through the room. Even Gale and Wyll couldn’t help but chuckle, though they tried to keep it subtle. Astarion rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, while Lae’zel continued to glare at him, her confusion slowly morphing into irritation.
"Enough," Alex cut in, his voice calm but firm, silencing the group. "Here’s how we’ll do this. Me and Glut will take the attic. Lae’zel and Shadowheart can stay here on the main floor, and Astarion and Gale can sleep in the kitchen."
Gale nodded in agreement, though Astarion’s gaze darted toward Karlach and Wyll with a venomous glare. "I hope Wyll’s pelvis breaks," he muttered spitefully.
"Hey, my bones are tougher than they look," Wyll retorted, trying to keep his composure.
"Not for long," Astarion quipped, his tone dripping with mockery. "With all the ‘exercising’ you’ll be doing, I give you a week before you’re walking with a cane."
"Enough," Alex interrupted again, sharper this time. "It’s late, and I’m tired. Let’s just set up camp and get some rest."
"Fine," Astarion grumbled, folding his arms. Wyll muttered an apology, but the tension in the room lingered as they began to move crates and tidy the space.
After speaking with the family, who hesitantly agreed to their temporary takeover, Alex used a bit of magic to clean the dusty floors and walls. The group spread out, setting up their respective sleeping areas. Alex summoned sleeping bags from his psionic vault, handing one each to Lae’zel and Shadowheart. "Make yourselves comfortable," he said softly. "Goodnight."
Shadowheart took the sleeping bag with a quiet "Thank you," her voice devoid of its usual edge. Lae’zel simply grunted in acknowledgment.
In the kitchen, they repeated the process, shifting debris to create space for Gale and Astarion. Astarion sulked as he threw his cloak dramatically over his makeshift bed, muttering about the indignity of sleeping on the floor. Gale, ever practical, merely lay down and closed his eyes.
As Alex climbed the creaky stairs to the attic, the faint sounds of Karlach and Wyll’s 'laughter' echoed from the room above. He shook his head with a small smile, their warmth a welcome contrast to the horrors of the day. But as he reached the landing, he noticed someone waiting for him.
Shadowheart stood near the attic door, her brown hair catching the moonlight streaming in from a cracked window. Her usual sharpness was softened, her arms loosely crossed as if unsure whether she wanted to speak or retreat.
"You’re still awake?" Alex asked, his voice low, careful not to disturb the others.
Shadowheart hesitated, her eyes flickering to the floor before meeting his again. "I… couldn’t sleep," she admitted softly, her voice carrying a vulnerability she rarely showed.
She drew in a breath, as if steadying herself, then added, "Can we talk somewhere more private?"
Alex studied her for a moment, sensing the weight behind her words. With a small nod, he raised his hand, and the shadows around them seemed to ripple and shift. In an instant, they were no longer in the dimly lit hallway but standing on the rooftop of the mansion. The cool night air greeted them, carrying the faint scent of the sea and the distant hum of the Outer City.
The moon hung in the sky, not full but glowing faintly, casting a silver sheen over the world below. It wasn’t a brilliant light—it was quiet, soft, and imperfect, yet somehow more beautiful for it.
They sat down on the roof, the rough stone cool beneath them. For a moment, neither spoke. A comforting silence stretched between them, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Shadowheart pulled her knees close to her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around them, as though gathering her thoughts.
Finally, she broke the stillness. "Can you cancel our disguises?" she asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
Alex nodded. With a flick of his wrist, the magic faded. Their disguises melted away, revealing their true forms. Shadowheart’s silver hair framed her face like a halo, its strands almost luminescent under the moonlight. The shadows seemed to cling to her in a way that was both haunting and beautiful, like the night itself had chosen her as its emissary.
"I’ve been thinking about it," she began, her voice quieter now, as though speaking the words aloud might break something fragile. "About everything. About what you are… about your past." She paused, her fingers lightly gripping the fabric of her blouse as her gaze fell to her lap. "It doesn’t change anything. Not for me."
Alex turned to her, his expression unreadable. She looked up then, her green eyes meeting his with a fierce determination, as though willing him to believe her. "I still… love you," she said, her voice trembling at first but growing steadier with each word. "All of it—the shadows, the secrets, the pain you carry—I don’t care. You’ve shown me who you really are, Alex, and it’s more than enough."
Her words hung in the air, vulnerable and raw, as the night seemed to hold its breath. The wind whispered around them, tugging at her hair, and she reached out, her fingers brushing his hand.