Alex stared at her, the weight of her confession pressing down on him like a heavy, unfamiliar burden. He had been called many things—monster, weapon, abomination—but never something as pure and unguarded as this. To hear those three words, spoken with such sincerity, felt like stepping into a world he no longer believed existed. His chest tightened, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he couldn’t find his voice, as though it had been stolen by the gravity of the moment.
Conflict churned within him. He had always seen Shadowheart as a friend—a trusted companion who shared his trials and battles. Yet, hearing her confession, seeing the raw emotion in her eyes, made his heart stutter in a way that unsettled him. He wasn’t afraid to say no; Alex had faced terrors that would have shattered lesser people. But this was different. Turning her down felt like it would break something precious, something irreplaceable.
And yet, he wasn’t sure he could say yes. Not fully. Not yet.
"You…" he began, his voice low and unsteady, almost trembling with the weight of his uncertainty. "Do you really love—"
"I do love you, Alex," Shadowheart interrupted, her words cutting through his hesitation like a blade. Her voice was steady, her conviction unshakable. She reached out, her hand covering his, her fingers warm against his cool skin. "I’m not saying this lightly, and I’m not saying it for you to feel obligated. I’m saying it because it’s the truth. You’ve fought so hard to protect everyone, to do what’s right—even when it meant sacrificing parts of yourself. How could I not love you for that?"
Her green eyes softened, and her voice faltered slightly as she added, "I know Minthara’s death wasn’t easy for you. It wasn’t easy for any of us, but you were closest to her. I’ve seen how her loss weighed on you. You’ve closed your heart off, Alex, and I understand why. But…" She paused, her grip on his hand tightening ever so slightly. "Can you open it just a little? For me?"
Her words struck something deep within him, something raw and unhealed. Memories of Minthara surfaced—her fierce presence, the intensity of their bond, and the hollow ache her absence had left behind. He had carried the pain silently, locking it away with all the other wounds he didn’t have the luxury of tending to.
And then there was Amanita, the pale vampire whose presence had been as intoxicating as it was fleeting. Their relationship had been like a wildfire—passionate and consuming, but unpredictable. He didn’t even know if he would ever see her again.
‘Fuck it,’ Alex thought, shaking off the lingering doubt. Shadowheart was here, now. Her love wasn’t an inferno threatening to consume him—it was a steady flame, warm and patient. For the first time in a long while, he felt something crack within him, the beginnings of walls coming down.
Slowly, Alex turned his hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. He held her gaze, his expression softening as he spoke. "I… don’t deserve you," he said finally, his voice raw with emotion. "After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve become… I don’t deserve this."
Shadowheart smiled, her eyes glimmering like emeralds under the moonlight. "That’s not for you to decide," she replied, her voice gentle but firm. "I think you deserve everything, Alex. Everything and more."
Her words were a balm to wounds he hadn’t realized were still bleeding. Alex let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to relax. The tension in his shoulders eased as he leaned forward, his forehead gently touching hers. The warmth of her presence enveloped him, grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
They sat there in silence, the world falling away around them. The moon continued its quiet vigil above, its silvery light casting a soft glow over them. The night was cool, but the warmth between them kept the chill at bay.
Alex closed his eyes, letting the moment settle over him like a gentle tide. Shadowheart had found her way into his guarded heart and he was willing to let her in.
Shadowheart’s yawn was soft, almost endearing, as she rubbed her eyes. “I’m going to sleep,” she said, her voice tinged with drowsiness. But then, almost hesitantly, she glanced at Alex, her cheeks faintly flushed. “Do you… want to come with me?” she asked, her tone laced with a mix of embarrassment and vulnerability.
Alex paused, his eyes softening. For a moment, he considered it, the offer of warmth and companionship pulling at something deep within him. But he shook his head gently. “I still have some things to take care of,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a hint of regret.
Shadowheart’s expression flickered with something unreadable—disappointment, perhaps, but she quickly replaced it with a small smile. “Alright,” she murmured. She hesitated, then leaned in, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. Her lips were warm against his cool skin, a fleeting connection that lingered longer in its meaning than its touch. “Just… make sure you get enough rest, alright?”
Alex managed a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I will.”
With a subtle wave of his hand, the shadows around them stirred. In an instant, Shadowheart was enveloped in their embrace and vanished, reappearing safely inside the house. Her soft steps could be heard for a moment as she climbed the stairs, then silence.
Alex stayed behind, the rooftop now a solitary perch under the quiet moonlight. He let out a slow breath, his gaze fixed on the stars scattered across the sky. The kiss on his cheek lingered like a phantom warmth, but it wasn’t just that. It was the tenderness, the unspoken trust she had shown him. He hadn’t expected it—didn’t think he deserved it—but it was there, undeniable and real.
He closed his eyes, letting the night’s cool air brush against his face. “To be human…” he murmured, the words drifting into the stillness. “It’s such a strange thing.”
His thoughts turned inward, a tide of emotions pulling at him. Love, companionship, guilt, and a lingering sense of purpose that he hadn’t yet defined. He reached out , speaking to the unseen. “Eilistraee,” he began, his voice low but steady. “Did I made the right choice? Did you see something I can’t?"
A soft, melodic giggle whispered in his ear, like the chiming of silver bells. It wasn’t an answer, but it wasn’t silence either. The sound wrapped around him, comforting yet fleeting, and he allowed himself a rare moment of peace.
Alex shook his head, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he muttered to himself. With a flick of his wrist, the shadows stirred again, coiling around him like loyal companions. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, leaving the rooftop bathed in the serene glow of the moonlight.
Alex reappeared in the attic, the dim light casting shadows across the wooden beams. Shadow was already there, motionless yet alert, his glowing eyes fixed on Alex. Beside him lay the trader they had meet a day ago , a 'friend' of Shadowheart, slumped over and bound in silence, his breathing shallow. The man’s face bore the faint sheen of sweat, a stark contrast to the serenity of his unconscious state.
Alex approached without hesitation, his steps deliberate. He placed his hand on Shadow’s head, feeling the familiar, eerie connection as memories bled from one mind to the other. Shadow’s recent observations poured into Alex like ink spreading across water—snippets of movement, muffled conversations, and the man’s whispered confessions of greed.
“Good job,” Alex said, his tone measured but carrying the faintest edge of approval.
Shadow nodded, his form melting slightly into the surrounding darkness as if absorbing the praise into his very being.
Alex turned his gaze to Ferg Drogher. The man was an opportunist, preying on the misfortunes of others, a parasite feeding off the desperation of refugees. For Alex, there was no hesitation. He reached out. Tendrils of intertwined dark flesh burst forth, wrapping themselves around the man like ravenous serpents. They tightened, consuming him utterly, until not even dust remained.
“Trash,” Alex muttered, his voice cold and final, as if passing judgment on the man’s very existence.
Turning back to Shadow, Alex issued his command. “Guard the area. I have something to do that requires all my focus.”
Shadow bowed slightly, his form dissipating into the surrounding gloom until he was nothing more than a faint ripple in the darkness. The room grew still, the air heavy with anticipation.
A shimmering purple portal materialized beside Alex, its edges flickering like flames caught in a storm, tendrils of psionic energy curling outward and licking the air. From its swirling depths came a faint hum—a vibration that resonated deep in his chest, at once alien and familiar. With a steady hand, Alex reached into the vortex, his fingers breaching its boundary as if dipping into the fabric of another reality.
When his hand emerged, he held a tadpole—small, grotesque, and frozen in a glistening shell of astral frost. Its surface shimmered faintly, catching the dim light of the attic, each crystalline facet refracting eerie hues of purple and silver. Despite its stillness, Alex could feel it, alive in some intangible way. Its presence pressed against his mind like a heavy tide, relentless and insistent. The psychic hum that accompanied it was no longer faint; it was a low, guttural scream that clawed at the edges of his consciousness, begging to be heard.
This was no ordinary tadpole. This was The Emperor’s—an ancient and potent creature intended as a gift, a key to unlocking unimaginable potential. The Emperor had tried to absorb some of its power but failed, finding it too much for him to handle. So, he decided to offer it as a gift to his 'friends', believing that the tadpoles infused with netherite magic would be strong enough to absorb some of its knowledge.
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But that was when Alex had intervened.
He had consumed the tadpoles that once resided within his friends’ brains.
Now, holding this last, frozen remnant of The Emperor’s ambitions, Alex felt its hunger.
The tadpole’s psychic presence screamed for growth, for release, its desperation cutting through Alex like shards of glass. Starved of life, of purpose, it thrashed within its frozen prison, sending out waves of raw emotion that washed over him in crashing tides—fear, anger, longing. It reached for him, not with limbs but with an overwhelming psychic force that probed his mind, seeking entry, yearning to become whole again.
Alex’s body shifted, the transformation seizing him completely. His nervous system pulsated with raw energy, evolving and restructuring itself as his brain underwent an unfathomable metamorphosis. The neural connections rewove themselves faster than thought, and with every passing second, his consciousness expanded beyond what he ever believed possible. He could feel emotions slipping away—anger, fear, joy—all fading into an echo as his mental clarity soared beyond the bounds of mortal comprehension. Logic replaced instinct; focus consumed doubt.
The tadpole hovered just inches away, its form pulsating in tandem with the rhythm of his being. As its psychic energy poured into him, Alex's mind cracked open like a dam. A tidal wave of knowledge surged in—fragments of memories, whispered secrets, and long-buried truths.
The room dissolved into a kaleidoscope of cosmic visions. He saw it all: the threads of reality weaving through the universe, the fundamental patterns that governed existence—its purpose laid bare before him. The gods were no longer untouchable entities but flawed architects within this intricate design. He saw their weaknesses, their mistakes, and their failures.
He understood now.
Thousands of voices whispered in unison, fragments of the myriad tadpoles he had consumed before now converging with this one. Each voice carried knowledge—languages long forgotten, magics older than the stars, and truths hidden within the folds of existence. The collective will of the devoured tadpoles became his own, their strength forging a singular, unyielding purpose.
Pain rippled through Alex, his body convulsing as his nerves adapted to the power. But with the agony came clarity. He could feel his veins pulsing with psionic energy, his hands trembling as if holding the weight of creation itself. He looked at the tadpole, now hovering just before his forehead, radiating an ancient hunger.
'Consume,' the thought resonated—not from the tadpole but from within himself.
It struck, plunging into his skull with terrifying precision.
Alex’s scream tore through the attic, raw and guttural, a sound that seemed to reverberate beyond reality itself. His body convulsed violently, his back arching as tendrils of purple energy erupted from him, intertwining with the fabric of the room. The air grew colder, heavier, as though the attic had become a nexus of raw psychic energy.
The power surged, its magnitude threatening to rip him apart. His mind teetered on the brink of oblivion, bombarded by the collective knowledge of countless millennia. He saw visions of civilizations older than time, their rise and inevitable decay. He saw endless wars fought over the same meaningless pursuits, and the quiet despair of gods watching their creations fall into ruin.
“This power is mine,” he growled through clenched teeth, his voice resonating with a newfound authority. He wrestled with the tendrils of energy trying to consume him, forcing them into submission. His thoughts coalesced, cutting through the storm of memories like a blade through fog. He would not be devoured by the weight of this knowledge—he would wield it.
As the chaos reached its apex, Alex’s mind stretched further than ever before, beyond the confines of his body, beyond the limits of space and time. For a moment, he was the universe, and the universe was him. He felt the threads of reality in his hands, pliable and fragile.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.
The room stilled. The oppressive weight lifted, leaving behind a profound silence.
The gravity of what had just transpired began to sink in. The tadpole’s psychic weight, once an unbearable burden, now felt like an extension of himself—a reservoir of boundless power, knowledge, and potential.
He extended his hand toward a small, forgotten piece of wood lying on the dusty floor. It obeyed his unspoken command, rising into the air as if tethered to invisible strings. The wood trembled, its molecules vibrating under the strain of his influence, and then began to warp. It melted like wax, its solid form dissolving into a viscous, golden liquid that hovered in midair.
Alex tilted his head, his glowing eyes narrowing as he shaped the liquid into perfect spheres, their surfaces so smooth they seemed to reflect dimensions beyond this one. The spheres fragmented, each piece elongating into sharp-edged prisms that rotated in a mesmerizing, deliberate dance. The prisms collapsed into themselves, forming intricate geometric patterns—impossible shapes that defied the laws of physics.
The air crackled with latent energy, the sheer act of manipulation bending the boundaries of reality itself. With a thought, the liquid returned to its original form, hardening into the unassuming piece of wood it had been moments before. It dropped to the floor with a muted clink, as though the universe had sighed in relief.
Alex stared at it. He flexed his fingers, watching the arcs of psionic energy that danced across his knuckles like storm-charged lightning. The power within him thrummed, a steady and intoxicating rhythm. It was alive, pulsing through his veins, wrapping around his mind like a second heartbeat.
The visions the tadpole had shown him still lingered, vivid and haunting. He could see the gods again, their celestial forms fractured and crumbling under the weight of their hubris. He saw galaxies blink into and out of existence, each cycle leaving behind remnants of forgotten beauty and chaos. He saw the faces of those he cared about, their lives etched with struggles and triumphs.
“I see it now,” he murmured, his voice reverberating with an unearthly resonance. “The fabric of reality… it’s not immutable. It bends, it breaks, it reshapes. All this time, I was trying to survive within its limits. But now…” His voice trailed off as he glanced at his hands again, his gaze hardening into a look of steely resolve.
He clenched his fist, turned toward a mirror, his reflection in the cracked glass revealing a man transformed. The faint glow in his eyes shimmered with knowledge and power beyond comprehension, a constant reminder of the ancient force now fused with his essence. He was no longer simply Alex. He was the culmination of thousands of lifetimes, the wielder of a power that could unmake gods and reshape the stars.
And yet, he felt no fear. No hesitation. This power wasn’t a curse; it was liberation.
He exhaled slowly, his breath carrying with it the weight of countless possibilities.
The piece of wood remained on the floor, innocuous and untouched. But Alex knew the truth. With a thought, he could turn it into gold, into fire, into nothing at all. Reality itself was malleable in his hands—a canvas upon which he would paint his will.
The purple glow in Alex’s eyes dimmed to an almost imperceptible flicker as the remnants of his psionic power receded into the depths of his mind. His breath had yet to even out when the hatch to the attic slammed open with a burst of force.
“Karlach…” Alex began, his voice steady but hollow.
“What in the Nine Hells just happened?” Karlach's booming voice filled the attic, her disheveled hair falling in wild strands over her flushed face. Her tunic was askew, barely clinging to her frame as if she’d rushed from wherever she’d been. “Did you summon a dragon or something? Because that scream—whatever it was—shook the entire mansion!” Her fiery eyes darted around the room, finally locking on Alex, who stood motionless amid the chaos.
Before Alex could respond, Astarion’s voice wafted up from below, laden with irritation. “Oh, don’t worry, Karlach. The Flaming Fist are here too, lingering at the door, no doubt eager to arrest someone for the racket.”
“And Alex is there , right?” Shadowheart’s worried tone carried up the stairs, the urgency in her voice unmistakable.
Alex’s mind churned. His moment of ascension had been all-consuming, and he hadn’t even considered the repercussions. The scream—his scream—had been a raw manifestation of the psionic storm that tore through him. Of course, they would have heard it.
“Apologies,” Alex said, his voice unnervingly monotone. Logic dominated his thoughts, his emotions still suppressed by the residual effects of his transformation. His tone was clinical, devoid of warmth or connection.
Without another word, Alex’s form shimmered as if dissolving into the air itself. He descended effortlessly through the floorboards, his physical body untouched by the constraints of matter, and reappeared below where the rest of the group had gathered, their faces a mixture of confusion, worry, and annoyance.
His mind shifted, the structures of his brain realigning back to their mortal configurations. The vast psionic potential began to ebb, replaced by the familiar pulse of his emotions returning. His once unshakable logic softened as a wave of exhaustion and humanity swept over him. Alex took a deep, steadying breath, grounding himself in the here and now.
“I was experimenting with something,” he began, his voice now tinged with the faintest trace of weariness. “It took more out of me than I anticipated.”
“Experimenting with what?” Astarion interjected, his usual grumpiness amplified by the disturbance. “Testing how many windows you can shatter with a single scream? Because congratulations, you succeeded. Not only did you deprive me of my beauty sleep, but you interrupted my meditation, which, frankly, is even worse.”
"Elves don't sleep. "Lae'zel murmured from the side.
Alex tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. “It was that loud?”
“Extremely,” Gale said with a weary sigh. He gestured to Wyll, who was still blinking in confusion. “I believe you’ve actually damaged Wyll’s hearing.”
“What?” Wyll shouted, his voice louder than necessary. “I can’t hear you—did you say something about my ears? Because all I hear is ringing!”
Shadowheart stepped closer, her expression softening as she inspected Alex with an almost maternal concern. “Are you alright?” she asked, her voice low. Her eyes flicked over his face, searching for any sign of lingering injury or distress.
Alex nodded. “I’m fine,” he replied simply, though his weariness betrayed him.
“What in Thorm’s name did you do?” the husband of the house asked, his face pale. There was a flicker of fear in his expression—an instinctive, primal response to the unnatural power Alex had displayed.
Alex straightened, his tone calm but firm. “I was practicing a new spell,” he lied smoothly. “The effects were… unexpected.” He paused, and for the first time since the incident, his voice softened with sincerity. “I apologize.”
The man exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just… don’t do it again. Not here.” He gestured toward the staircase. “And the Flaming Fist are downstairs waiting for an explanation.” With that, he descended to rejoin his wife and daughter, leaving Alex to face the gathering below.
As Alex followed, his steps deliberate, he caught sight of the Flaming Fist officers standing awkwardly by the door. Recognition flashed in their eyes, followed immediately by a wave of unease. He noted the faint trembling of one man’s hand, the way another shifted his weight nervously. Then it clicked—these were the same soldiers he had frightened this morning.
The officer in the lead paled visibly, his eyes darting toward Alex as though bracing for something catastrophic. Before Alex could speak, the man raised a trembling hand to cut him off.
“We heard what you said!” the officer blurted, his voice cracking slightly. “Spell accident, right? Totally understand—accidents happen. No need to explain further!”
The rest of the soldiers nodded vigorously, their movements almost comically exaggerated.
“Goodnight!” the leader added hastily, turning on his heel and bolting for the door with surprising speed. His subordinates followed close behind, their armor clinking in a hasty retreat.
Alex watched them go, his expression impassive. When the last of the Flaming Fist had disappeared into the night, Karlach let out a hearty laugh, her earlier frustration melting away.
“Well, I guess that’s one way to clear a room,” she said, smirking.
Shadowheart shot Alex a glance, her concern still evident. “You’re sure you’re alright?”
Alex nodded again, his gaze distant. “I will be,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. The weight of the transformation still lingered, a shadow of power that refused to be entirely suppressed.