Alex motioned for his companions to follow him as they climbed back into the attic. The air felt heavier now, not with fear or chaos, but with anticipation. With a flick of his fingers, Alex created a shimmering psionic barrier around them. Its translucent purple hue rippled like water, sealing them in and ensuring that no sound would escape beyond its confines.
Karlach folded her arms, her eyes narrowing as she stared him down. “Now you’re going to tell us what the hell you really did up here, right?” she demanded, her voice firm but tinged with genuine concern.
“What did you say, love?” Wyll asked, still visibly disoriented.
“By Orpheus, can someone fix this idiot’s ears already?” Lae’zel growled impatiently, her expression a mixture of annoyance and worry.
Alex raised his hand, golden light pooling around his palm as he focused. A soft hum filled the room, and with a gesture, the radiant energy flowed into Wyll.
Wyll blinked, his eyes widening as the world sharpened into clarity again. “Ah, thanks for that,” he said, his grin returning. “But seriously, Alex—what was that scream? It felt like my soul was about to burst out of my chest.”
Alex let out a measured breath, steadying himself. “I’ll explain everything,” he promised, his tone carrying a weight that silenced the room. With a small motion of his hand, he conjured the astral-touched tadpole from his psionic vault. It hovered above his palm, its frozen, crystalline surface radiating an almost unbearable psychic pressure.
The effect on his companions was immediate.
“What… is that?” Gale asked, his voice strained. He clutched his head, squinting as if trying to block out the invisible noise that the tadpole emanated. “It’s like something’s clawing at my mind.”
“Me too,” Karlach muttered, rubbing her temples. One by one, the others nodded, their faces etched with discomfort.
“It’s a tadpole that belonged to The Emperor,” Alex said, his voice calm but deliberate.
Astarion raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly despite the psychic discomfort. “It looks more like a frozen… long potato,” he quipped, his characteristic smirk returning.
Alex’s gaze remained fixed on the tadpole. “This isn’t just any tadpole,” he said, his tone grave. “It’s an astral-touched tadpole. It has languished in the Sea of Dead Gods for countless millennia—learning, gathering potential, becoming something far beyond what it once was.”
The room fell silent as his words sank in. Even Glut, who had been unusually quiet, shifted with a faint flicker of unease.
Alex continued, his voice unwavering. “I absorbed its potential.” He paused, his eyes flicking to each of his companions. “Its knowledge, its power—it was mind-shattering. Literally. For a moment, I thought it would destroy me. But instead, it gave me insight—an understanding of psionics that I could never have achieved otherwise.”
To demonstrate, Alex extended his hand toward the shard of wood he had tested earlier. It flew into his palm with a faint hum, and as his fingers closed around it, the material began to dissolve, morphing into a viscous liquid. The liquid reformed itself into intricate shapes—a cube, a sphere, a delicate lattice of crystalline threads—before solidifying into wood again.
The display left his companions visibly stunned.
“Can you teach us how to do that?” Astarion asked, his tone betraying a mix of curiosity and ambition.
“That would be so awesome!” Karlach added, her eyes lighting up with excitement.
Alex shook his head, his expression somber. “Your brains, biologically, aren’t capable of producing this much psionic power. It would destroy you,” he said simply.
Karlach’s shoulders slumped slightly. “That’s a shame,” she muttered, her enthusiasm dimming.
“What about you?” Gale asked, his brows furrowing. “How are you holding up after… all of that?”
“I’m fine,” Alex replied. “I’m recovering quickly. After a short rest, I’ll be good as new.”
Shadowheart chuckled softly, her lips curling into a wry smile. “Only you, Alex, would call recovery from ‘mind-shattering knowledge’ a quick nap.”
Lae’zel, stepped forward, her sharp eyes studying him. “What else can you do?” she asked, her voice measured but tinged with intrigue.
“For starters,” Alex said, taking a step forward. Before anyone could blink, he appeared at the opposite end of the attic, his movements defying logic. With another step, he reappeared in his original spot.
“Fascinating,” Gale murmured, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. “You’re bending the space around you…” He trailed off, lost in thought.
Alex turned his focus inward, his body lifting off the ground in a smooth, controlled hover. The faint glow of psionic energy shimmered around him, casting soft, shifting shadows on the walls.
“There’s more,” Alex admitted as he gently lowered himself back to the floor. “But I don’t think it would be wise to demonstrate them here.”
Astarion stood, brushing off his clothes with exaggerated drama. “Well, if that’s all, I have some much-needed Reverie to get back to,” he said, his tone laced with sarcasm as he strode toward the exit.
The rest of the group lingered, their eyes fixed on Alex with a mixture of awe, unease, and admiration.
As they began to disperse, Karlach clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. “Whatever you do, we’re with you. Just… maybe warn us next time, yeah?”, she said, her voice warm despite the earlier tension.
Alex allowed himself a faint smile, the weight of his transformation settling in his mind. He didn’t just feel different—he was different. But for now, surrounded by his companions, he found a small measure of solace.
The air in the attic grew heavier with an unspoken gravity as Wyll stepped forward. His eye, usually brimming with determination, carried a shadow of vulnerability.
“Guys,” Wyll began, his voice steady but tinged with hesitation, “if it’s not the wrong moment, I want to share with you my past—and how I ended up signing a pact with Mizora.”
The room stilled. All eyes turned to him, even Astarion, who had been halfway to the hatch.
“Yeah, I definitely do care about that,” Astarion muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Shadowheart shot him a withering look before jabbing her elbow sharply into his ribs. The sudden impact made him wince. “He listened to you pour your heart out about your past with Cazador,” she snapped. “The least you could do is return the courtesy.”
Astarion hesitated, his blue eyes darting away. After a long pause, he muttered, “Sorry.” The word slipped from his lips as though it were foreign, awkward but sincere.
Karlach’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit. Did Astarion just apologize to someone?” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with disbelief.
Astarion rolled his eyes, brushing off her comment with an irritated shake of his head.
Karlach grinned at Wyll, her demeanor softening. “Go on, love. We’re listening.”
Wyll nodded, taking a deep breath as he began his story. “I was seventeen,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of nostalgia and regret. “My father—Ulder Ravengard—had just been named Grand Duke and was called away to Elturel to help settle a dispute. That’s when the Cult of the Dragon made its move.”
Alex’s mind churned, recalling everything he knew about the cult: a sinister organization devoted to venerating undead dragons and dracoliches, founded by the corrupted Chosen of Mystra, Sammaster. Their ultimate goal? The rise of Tiamat, the dragon goddess of chaos and destruction.
Wyll’s voice pulled him back. “A tenday after Father left, I heard a whisper as I slept: ‘Dusthawk Hill. The Queen of Chaos awakens. Go alone.’” He gestured, reenacting the memory. “I grabbed my rapier and set out. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, yet not a single star was shining. It was... unsettling.”
The room seemed to hang on his every word, the tension building.
“There they were,” Wyll continued, his voice growing quieter. “Gathered at the foot of the hill. Five groups of five figures, each encircling a towering totem. Atop each totem was a dragon’s head carved from dark stone, and a massive orb sat within its mouth. The cultists chanted, softly at first, then louder, crying to the starless sky.”
Alex raised a hand, his expression contemplative. “I can link our minds,” he offered. “We could experience this memory together, exactly as Wyll remembers it. If you’re comfortable with that.” He turned to Wyll, his expression neutral but his eyes searching.
Wyll hesitated, curiosity flickering across his face. “That… sounds interesting,” he admitted.
“I have no problem with it,” Astarion said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
One by one, the rest of the companions nodded their agreement.
Alex closed his eyes, thin tendrils of psionic energy extending from him to each of his companions. The world around them blurred and twisted, reality folding away until they found themselves standing within the vivid fabric of Wyll’s memory.
They were him now—his eyes, his body, his fear.
The hill loomed before them, its shadow stretching across the land. Five groups of robed figures chanted in unison, their voices echoing through the unnatural stillness. The air felt charged, oppressive, as though the hill itself pulsed with malevolence. Each totem bore the likeness of a dragon’s head, carved with unnerving precision, its mouth cradling a glowing orb.
Then, the chanting grew louder. The cultists’ voices rose in unholy unison, piercing the night.
The ground beneath them rumbled. A crack of thunder split the sky, and an icy gust of wind tore through the hilltop. Out of the tempest, a colossal white dragon’s head materialized, its presence filling the air with palpable dread.
And then… a whisper. Soft and sultry, it brushed against their minds like a forbidden caress:
“She will destroy Baldur’s Gate. Grant me your soul, and I will give you the power to stop her.”
It was Mizora. Her voice dripped with malice and seduction, promising salvation at the cost of damnation.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The memory warped, pulling them from the hilltop with a jarring lurch. Reality reasserted itself, and they were back in the attic, gasping as if they’d been plunged into icy water.
“That was… quite the experience,” Shadowheart murmured, her voice low and thoughtful.
Karlach placed a hand on Wyll’s shoulder, her fiery warmth a stark contrast to the chill of his memory. “You did what you had to, love. That’s a heavy burden, but you’ve carried it well.”
Wyll nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “Thank you.”
Gale, however, had fallen silent, his mind clearly alight with thought. “I wonder,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “what would happen if Alex delved deeper into memories like these while I use my psionic power. Could he…” Gale trailed off, lost in a whirlwind of theories that seemed to overwhelm even him.
Alex remained quiet, the weight of Wyll’s memory settling over him. Whatever Mizora had promised, whatever power she had granted, Wyll had taken it not for himself but for the sake of others.
“You’re stronger than you know, Wyll,” Alex finally said, his tone steady and sincere.
Wyll looked at him, his expression a mixture of gratitude and acceptance. “I just did what I had to,” he replied softly.
Wyll took a deep, measured breath, his shoulders rising and falling as he steadied himself to continue. “She read the terms,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “while two devils stood witness. The deal was simple: one soul for one city. And I said yes.”
Shadowheart’s voice broke the silence that followed, soft yet probing. “Surely Mizora doesn’t care about Baldur’s Gate. Do you know why she was really there?”
Wyll’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. “She came on orders from her mistress—Zariel.” His words were laced with bitterness. At the name, Karlach tensed, her hands balling into fists.
The weight of Zariel’s name hung heavily in the air. Wyll continued, his tone grim. “Tiamat made a play for power, but Zariel had other plans. That’s all Mizora ever said. What mattered to her was the prize she claimed…”
Astarion smirked darkly. “You.”
Wyll nodded slowly, his gaze distant. “Another pet added to her warlock menagerie.”
To everyone’s surprise, Lae’zel was the next to speak, her voice devoid of her usual sharpness. “Sacrificing your soul to save your city was a brave thing to do.”
Wyll offered a faint, self-deprecating smile, his lips barely curving. “I don’t know if it was brave,” he admitted. “I just knew it was right.” He paused, the memories thick in his voice. “The moment I agreed, my body burned with the fires of Avernus and rotted with the stench of Dis.”
Karlach stepped closer, her warmth radiating as she gently side-hugged him, her hand slipping into his. Wyll glanced at her, his smile growing slightly warmer, and he continued.
“The cultists choked on our poison and burned from our flames. When the battle was done, all that remained were five greying orbs atop a pile of ash. My soul was bound, my lips sealed, and my fate…” His voice wavered. “...no longer my own.”
Gale stepped forward, his curiosity evident in his tone. “Is that how you lost your eye? In the fight with the Cult of the Dragon?”
Wyll nodded solemnly. “It is. The one scar I ever bore from that night.” He touched the prosthetic eye, his fingers lingering as if recalling the pain. “Mizora replaced it with a sending stone. She uses it to track me, to speak to me, no matter where I go. I could flee to the Spine of the World or descend into the depths of the Underdark, and she’d still find me.”
Alex stepped closer, his intense gaze locked on Wyll’s prosthetic eye. The air seemed to shift, his presence heavy yet reassuring.
Sensing Alex’s intent, Wyll hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Can you get rid of it?”
Alex nodded. “I can try.” He raised his hand, letting it hover over Wyll’s right eye. Closing his own eyes, Alex reached out with his own energy, his fingers glowing faintly with an otherworldly blue hue.
The room grew still, the tension palpable.
'Some enchantments alert the devil if tampered with... and one that causes the eye to detonate. But nothing the Orb can’t consume.' Alex concluded
The faint pulse of the Orb within Alex’s chest resonated as it began to devour the malicious magic. The enchantments around the prosthetic unraveled, collapsing into nothingness.
“Mizora placed a failsafe,” Alex said, his voice calm but firm. “The eye would’ve detonated if it sensed tampering.”
Wyll stiffened, his breath catching. He hadn’t known.
“But it’s done now,” Alex assured him. “Let’s give you a new eye.”
The prosthetic shimmered as Alex removed it, the intricate stone vanishing into his other hand. With a flick of his wrist, he handed it to Wyll as a keepsake.
From Alex’s palm, a thin tendril of flesh began to form, stretching toward Wyll’s empty eye socket. The companions watched in fascinated silence as Alex’s psionic energy guided the growth, reconstructing the delicate tissues and nerves. The process was eerily precise, every detail meticulously crafted.
Wyll winced briefly as the nerves connected, then blinked rapidly as Alex pulled his hand away. His new eye gleamed, whole and vibrant.
The group stared, caught between awe and disbelief.
Karlach grinned, her fiery hair catching the light as she leaned in. “Look at you, love! Two eyes again! How’s it feel?”
Wyll blinked a few more times, testing his vision. Slowly, a smile—genuine and wide—spread across his face. “It feels… perfect. I can see again.”
Shadowheart stepped closer, inspecting the eye with a healer’s curiosity. “It looks like a normal eye, and you used no magic.”
Gale, murmured to himself, “To do such a thing without magic…”
Glut rolled his eyes. What Alex did to Wyll barely scratched the surface of his limits. He was a living testament to his mastery of manipulating life.
Wyll’s gaze met Alex’s, gratitude clear in his expression. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t think it could be undone. I owe you more than I can say.”
Alex simply nodded, his presence steady and calm. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “You’ve carried this burden long enough. It was time to set it down.”
----------------------------------------
As the sun crept over the horizon, casting warm hues across the streets of Rivington, Alex and his companions stirred. The night’s rest had left them revitalized, and their departure from the house was met with tearful gratitude from the refugee family they had aided.
They meandered down the main street, the cobblestones glinting faintly under the morning light. The air was crisp, but something unusual tugged at their attention—a gathering of people ahead, clustered near a gate to the left side of the road.
The crowd's murmurs carried an air of intrigue, punctuated by the occasional exclamation. To the left of the gate, a gaudy, vibrant carriage stood out, its paint an almost garish clash of yellows, reds, and blues. Bars enclosed it like a mobile cage. A halfling in ostentatiously colorful attire was locked in a heated argument with a member of the Flaming Fist.
Alex’s ears perked up, his innate curiosity piqued. He tilted his head slightly, focusing on the exchange.
“The missing redcaps will find a stray cat or two to nibble on and be back in a jiffy,” the halfling chirped dismissively, waving a hand as if swatting away a trivial concern.
The Flaming Fist officer, his brow furrowed in visible frustration, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloodthirsty redcaps on the loose are the last thing I need today,” he grumbled.
Alex arched a brow but returned his attention to his companions as Shadowheart pointed toward a weathered placard nearby. The bold, colorful lettering seemed out of place amidst the somber atmosphere of the town.
“‘The Circus of the Last Days has returned!’” Shadowheart read aloud, her voice carrying a hint of skepticism. “‘See dryads, djinn, and Dribbles the Clown—with a brand-new act!’” She raised an eyebrow and glanced at the others.
“A circus?” Karlach’s face lit up like a child’s. “We have to check it out! It sounds like fun!” She turned to Alex, her fiery enthusiasm impossible to resist.
Alex chuckled softly, shrugging. “I’ll admit, I’m curious. Let’s see what this is all about.”
The group moved toward the gate, joining the queue of eager patrons. As they approached, the vibrant clamor of the circus came into focus—the occasional trill of an unseen flute, distant laughter, and the scent of roasted nuts mingling with the morning air.
Finally, they reached the front. The gatekeeper was an odd sight, dressed in clashing hues of green, yellow, and blue, with a jovial but slightly manic smile plastered across his face. Beside him sat a ghoul—yes, a ghoul. Its decayed skin hung loosely over its bones, but even it wore a ludicrously colorful outfit, complete with a ruffled collar.
Alex and the others exchanged looks.
The ghoul seemed... alert. Its nostrils flared as it sniffed the air, its cloudy eyes narrowing. It turned toward the man ahead of them in line and hissed with a voice like scraping stones.
“STINKS OF CHEESE. BETWEEN HIS PIGGY TOES.”
The man recoiled, his face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and indignation. “How dare you!?” he sputtered, clearly appalled. “What in the hells is all this nonsense?”
The gatekeeper spoke with practiced theatrics. “A necessity, good sir! The Steel Watch loves pretending sweet Rivington doesn’t exist, so we’ve taken it upon ourselves to protect you, dear patrons. No need to thank us. Once I’ve finished this batch, you’ll be allowed entry!”
The man stormed off, muttering curses under his breath, and the gatekeeper turned to Alex’s party, spreading his arms wide.
“Ah, what a fine group! Time for the sniff test!” he proclaimed, his grin widening to unsettling proportions.
The companions exchanged wary glances.
“This is absurd,” Lae’zel muttered, arms crossed. “A sniff test? What nonsense is this?”
Karlach leaned closer to Alex, whispering with barely contained laughter, “I swear, if that ghoul says something about my feet, I’ll die.”
Shadowheart groaned. “Can’t we just bribe our way in?”
The ghoul, unperturbed by the commentary, rose and shuffled forward, its grotesque face inches away from Alex’s chest. It sniffed once, twice, then tilted its head in contemplation. Its lips curled into a macabre smile.
“MANY FACES. MANY SOULS,” it rasped. “HARMONY LIKE A SONG. POWER... BUT NO ROT.”
“Uh, thanks?” Alex said, visibly confused.
The ghoul moved to Karlach, inhaling deeply. Its milky eyes flared with recognition. “ASH AND EMBERS. FIRE IN THE VEINS. YOU SMELL... DELICIOUS.”
Karlach raised an eyebrow, her tail flicking behind her. “Not sure if I should be flattered or creeped out.”
The ghoul continued its inspection, addressing each companion in turn.
“MOOLIGHT AND LOVE,” it said to Shadowheart, who rolled her eyes a faint blush on her face.
“ARROGANCE AND BLOOD,” it declared to Astarion, who responded with a sarcastic bow. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
When it sniffed Gale, the ghoul recoiled dramatically. “TOO MUCH... ARCANE STENCH. LIKE A LIBRARY EXPLOSION.”
Gale smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Finally, it reached Wyll. Its nostrils flared as it circled him, almost predator-like. “BOUND BY A FIERY CONTRACT. SOUL SCARRED. SMELLS OF DUTY... AND REGRET.”
Wyll’s jaw tightened. “I’d rather not discuss it, thanks,” he said tersely.
Karlach gave him a reassuring nudge. “Ignore the undead creep. We know you're more than that.”
The ghoul moved to Glut, sniffing once before gagging. “FUNGAL STENCH! DECAY AND SPORE! YOU REEK OF... THE SWAMP AND DEATH!”
Glut rumbled, his tone equal parts amusement and disdain. “Death is my domain. Your theatrics are quaint.”
The gatekeeper’s clap echoed through the crisp morning air. His grin stretched wider than seemed natural, a mix of theatrics and genuine amusement. “Marvelous! You’ve all passed! Welcome to the Circus of the Last Days! Well… almost all of you.” He gestured dramatically toward the group, then jabbed a finger directly at Astarion.
Astarion blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Why me? The ghoul said Glut smells of death . How he is allow in and I 'am not” he asked, his tone equal parts indignation and confusion.
The gatekeeper’s grin turned sharp. “Because Benji here—” he gestured to the ghoul “—says you reek of blood. We can’t allow murderers inside. Think of the children!” He placed a hand over his chest as if mortally offended by the mere suggestion.
Astarion scoffed, his usual smugness faltering. “Murderer? Oh, please. Exsanguinationist, if you must, but that’s hardly—”
Karlach cut him off, stepping forward with a diplomatic tone. “Surely there’s a way he can come with us?” she asked, her fiery enthusiasm dimming. “He’s... mostly harmless.”
The gatekeeper tapped his chin thoughtfully, his grin unwavering. “Rules are rules, missy.”
Alex, his curiosity piqued, rubbed his chin as if contemplating a solution. Then, with a sly smile, he asked, “What if we keep him on a leash?”
A shocked silence followed, broken only by the faint trill of circus music in the distance. Astarion’s blue eyes widened, and his face twisted into a mix of horror and betrayal. “You wouldn’t dare—"
But before he could finish, Alex raised a hand, muttering an incantation under his breath. Necrotic energy swirled around his fingers, condensing into an ethereal chain that snaked through the air and latched itself around Astarion’s neck. The chain shimmered faintly, glowing with a malevolent light.
The vampire spawn’s hands flew to his throat, clawing at the spectral binding. “You absolute ghoul! Do you have any idea how degrading this is?!”
The others looked on, startled by Alex’s sudden assertiveness. Karlach stifled a laugh, her lips twitching. Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, impressed but saying nothing. Gale looked mildly concerned. Lae’zel just smirked.
Alex ignored Astarion’s protests and turned back to the gatekeeper. “So? Does this satisfy your rules?”
The gatekeeper’s grin faltered for the first time, replaced by genuine intrigue. He stepped closer, squinting at the ethereal chain. “A practitioner of the necrotic arts and—” he paused, tilting his head as though studying Alex anew “—one with remarkable finesse. Impressive. Most impressive. Yes, yes, this will do nicely.” He stepped aside with a flourish. “Enter, friends, and may the Circus of the Last Days dazzle your senses!”
Astarion grumbled under his breath, his usual swagger reduced to seething indignation. “I feel like I died again from this humiliation.”
Karlach clapped him on the back, grinning. “Oh, cheer up. You’re still the prettiest prisoner I’ve ever seen.”
Astarion couldn’t help but smirk, despite his frustration. “Well, if I must endure this indignity, I suppose being the prettiest is some consolation,” he quipped, his eyes glinting with a hint of his old charm. He turned to Wyll, a smirk on his face. "Did you hear that? Your sweetheart called me charming. How does that make you feel?"
Wyll rolled his eyes, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Enjoy your moment, Astarion. It won't last."
Astarion's smirk widened. "Oh, I'm quite used to fleeting moments of glory. I make the most of them."
As they passed through the gate, the chaotic energy of the circus unfolded before them. Brightly colored tents loomed like patchwork beacons in the distance, flanked by twisting banners that snapped in the wind. Laughter—some joyful, some unsettling—mingled with the distant music of a calliope. The scent of roasted nuts, sweet candies, and something more sinister drifted on the breeze.