The tension in the cavernous skull chamber was thick as Alex’s friends stepped through the entrance, their forms stark against the eerie backdrop. Flames licked up Karlach’s arms and shoulders, her fierce, battle-worn face set in a determined grimace. Beside her, Astarion moved with a predatory grace, his body encased in an ethereal psionic armor, the shimmering outlines accentuating his already sharp features. Their gazes swept over the scene before them, catching sight of the kneeling mindflayer and the cautious, battle-ready gitzerai surrounding Alex.
The gitzerai bristled at the sight of the newcomers, their eyes narrowed, muscles coiled to spring. Their hands moved to their weapons as they prepared for what they assumed was another intrusion.
“They’re with me,” Alex said, his voice echoing with a new resonance, as though an infernal storm lurked beneath his words. It was deep and powerful —a voice that demanded obedience.
Karlach’s mouth dropped open as her gaze locked onto Alex, taking in his transformed form. “Damn. Is that you, Alex?” she breathed, eyes wide with awe. The flames around her flickered as she took an involuntary step forward.
Alex met her gaze and closed his eyes. Slowly, his form began to shift. His skin, dark as midnight and streaked with symbols of power, faded back to its usual pale shade. His horns retracted, and the dark sigils disappeared, leaving only faint traces of where they’d been. His towering presence diminished, returning him to a more human-like figure, though a faint aura of power still lingered around him, as if the infernal energy was merely restrained, not gone.
“I think I preferred the devilish look,” Astarion muttered with a smirk, crossing his arms as he surveyed Alex. “It was... striking.”
Wyll, however, looked at Alex with caution, almost reverence. “His presence…” he murmured. “It made Mizora feel like an angel. So much infernal energy…Sorry for rushing in like that,” he added to Alex, glancing around at the gitzerai who watched their every move with hawk-like intensity.
Shadowheart rolled her eyes. “Told you we should have stayed back. But no, we just had to charge in,” she said, arms folded, though a slight grin betrayed her relief.
Alex felt a tug at the edges of his consciousness, a gentle but insistent probing. He turned his gaze to the crystal prison where Orpheus hovered, the Githyanki prince’s eyes locked onto his with an intensity that felt like an unspoken challenge.
‘If he wants to see, let him look,’ Alex thought, his mind opening to the prince’s inquiry.
In that instant, their minds connected, and memories flooded through. Images of battles, choices, moments of mercy, and wrath—all that Alex had seen and done flashed across Orpheus’s mind in a torrent. The prince’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the depth of Alex’s experience, his strength, his struggles .
Orpheus’s gaze softened, though his voice remained as unyielding as stone. “He can be trusted,” he declared, his words carrying the weight of a royal command.
The gitzerai visibly relaxed, their tension melting into reluctant acceptance. Sensing the shift, one figure moved through the crowd, her presence sharp and fierce: Lae’zel. She stepped forward, her posture rigid with purpose, her face a mask of unbreakable resolve.
Lae’zel strode across the open space, her boots echoing against the stone floor as she approached the crystal prison of her people’s prince. Her eyes, hardened and focused, met Orpheus’s gaze. She dropped to one knee, head bowed in a rare display of reverence. The proud githyanki who feared no battle, who followed her path with single-minded ferocity, knelt before her prince with all the respect her heart could muster.
“My prince,” she spoke, her voice a low, reverent murmur.
Orpheus studied her, his expression impassive, but something shifted in his gaze—a recognition of loyalty, a silent acknowledgment of her sacrifice. “Rise, Lae’zel,” he said, his voice a calm, authoritative echo that filled the chamber. “You and your kin have suffered long. And now, fate brings us to this moment.”
Lae’zel rose, her eyes shining with unshed emotion, her proud chin lifted. Her usual scowl softened, replaced by something almost vulnerable—a glimpse of the depths beneath her warrior’s exterior. She glanced at Alex, then back to Orpheus. “We will not fail you, my prince. Not now. Not ever.”
Orpheus nodded, his gaze sweeping over Alex, Lae’zel, and the others. “Together, we shall face what awaits. The chains that bound me here will no longer hold. We march, not just for freedom, but for vengeance. For the salvation of our people.”
As Astarion leaned closer to Shadowheart, his voice dropped to a whisper, laced with confusion. "Why is she suddenly so reverent?" he muttered, nodding toward Lae'zel, who had just shown an uncharacteristic display of respect for Orpheus.
Shadowheart shrugged, an exasperated sigh slipping from her lips. “I gave up trying to understand how a githyanki mind works long ago,” she replied, folding her arms as she watched Lae'zel with guarded curiosity.
But any curiosity was soon interrupted as Alex’s attention shifted sharply. His gaze locked onto the mindflayer that lingered before him, a portal flickering into existence just behind the creature, like a dark doorway promising escape. The mindflayer’s form began to glide toward the portal, its movements smooth and swift. But suddenly, a spectral, infernal chain burst forth from Alex's arm, shooting through the air like a whip. The chain wrapped itself around the mindflayer, pulling it away from the portal and dragging it back toward Alex.
The mindflayer made no attempt to resist; it knew any struggle would be in vain.
Orpheus sneered, his disdain almost palpable as he spoke. “This ghaik… this thief that sought to seize my power for himself. Why waste time? Kill it already,” he spat, eyes burning with contempt. A psionic dagger materialized in his hand, its blade shimmering with lethal energy, poised and ready to strike.
At Alex’s side, Phalar Aluve materialized, whole and radiant, its blade gleaming with renewed purpose. He tightened his grip on the sword, its weight familiar, its intent clear. He took a step toward the mindflayer, prepared to end it once and for all.
But then, something made him hesitate. The mindflayer’s memories flickered through his thoughts, fragments of a life before the transformation. A voice, desperate and pleading, echoed in his mind. 'Wait! I can still prove my worth!'
Alex paused, the images of the mindflayer’s past swirling in his mind. Slowly, he began to speak. “This mindflayer calls itself… The Emperor,” he announced, the name hanging in the air like a ghost.
Astarion scoffed, his trademark smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “What a fancy title. Though if I were him, I would’ve gone with ‘The King.’ Shorter, stronger.” His sarcasm was a thin veil over his intrigue.
But Alex continued, the name alone not the most shocking revelation. He took a breath, steeling himself. “Before it became… this, it was an adventurer. A man named Balduran.”
The reaction was instantaneous. Karlach and Astarion both let out a simultaneous, “Shit.” Wyll’s face twisted with shock, muttering under his breath, “By the hells…”
Gale stepped forward, his eyes wide with disbelief. “The legendary adventurer Balduran? Founder of Baldur’s Gate?”
Alex nodded solemnly, allowing the weight of the truth to settle over them. The name, once spoken with reverence in legends, now held a tragic irony as they looked upon the creature before them. The mindflayer—a monster by all accounts—had once been the hero who built the city they had all crossed paths in, the founder of Baldur’s Gate.
"That's... a plot twist if I ever heard one," Astarion quipped, though his usual sardonic tone was muted, as though even he was shaken.
Alex ordered the mindflayer to continue. “Tell them, Emperor. Tell them your story.”
The Emperor, visibly humbled, began to speak, his voice a low, resonant echo that carried across the hollow skull, each word laced with memories of his former life. “I was once known as Balduran,” he began, his tone filled with a sorrow that seemed to resonate with each syllable, but Alex knew better . The mind flayer was faking it , trying to win the group sympathy. “Long ago, I founded a coastal village called Grey Harbour. With the fortune I amassed, I funded the building of the Wall, securing the town that would one day become Baldur’s Gate. But the sea always called to me…”
His voice trailed off, eyes flickering with fragments of that long-lost life. “I left everything behind, seeking adventure once more. But on one fateful voyage, my ship was wrecked. I found myself stranded and wandered, eventually arriving at Moonrise Towers, where my path twisted into darkness. A coven of mindflayers awaited me, and they infected me with an illithid tadpole. From that moment, I was lost—imprisoned within the thrall of the Moonrise Elder Brain. Ten years… ten years of my will stripped from me.”
The Emperor’s voice cracked slightly, a hint of pain breaking through his otherwise emotionless mask.
“And yet,” The Emperor continued, “when I escaped, I returned to Baldur’s Gate. I fed on criminals—petty thieves and murderers, the ones no one would miss.” He cast his gaze down, his words tinged with regret. “It was survival, nothing more. But I kept myself hidden, lurking in the shadows, working to protect the city from greater threats… even as I became something monstrous.”
Astarion scoffed softly, though his expression was unreadable, as though he were masking something deeper beneath the sarcasm.
The Emperor continued, his tone growing heavier with each word. “In time, I met Duke Stelmane. She and I formed an alliance, a partnership that would see me rise to power behind the scenes. Through her, I became the governing force behind the Knights of the Shield—the largest mercantile operation in Baldur’s Gate.”
Stolen novel; please report.
Alex's voice was a commanding whisper. "You can stop," he said, turning to Wyll seeing him tense once The Emperor mentioned the name Stelmane .
"Did you know Stelmane well… back in the day?"
Wyll nodded, his expression distant as he dredged up memories long buried. “The first time I saw her, I was just a boy—seven or eight, at a banquet in honor of the Flaming Fist. She was mesmerizing. Chestnut hair, flowing like willow fronds, catching every light in the room. She didn’t walk; she glided, drifting from one room to the next like she was carried on clouds.”
His voice faltered, and his gaze drifted down, as if that young boy's awe was still fresh in his memory. “The second time… Stelmane was different. Her movements were slow, each step a struggle even with a cane. Every word she spoke seemed to cost her dearly. I asked my father later, ‘A stroke victim?’ But he corrected me, his voice somber, ‘A stroke survivor.’” He paused, his eyes hardening as he glanced at the mindflayer, the once-great woman now twisted into something almost unrecognizable.
“Yet something always gnawed at me,” Wyll continued, his voice dropping to a haunted whisper. “That first time, it felt like Stelmane didn’t look at us, but through us, as if we were beneath her notice. But that second time, her gaze… it never left me. There was a steel in her eyes, sharp and unyielding. It could have just been my imagination, but I always felt like it was more than a stroke that had changed her.” He turned his attention to the Emperor, his jaw clenched. “What did you do to her?”
The Emperor remained silent, but Alex’s patience was thinning. “Lie, and you’ll be burned to ash,” he warned, the infernal chains binding the Emperor pulsing with dark, fiery energy, as if eager to unleash judgment. The room was thick with tension, every eye on the creature before them.
The Emperor finally relented, his voice stripped of the haughty confidence it once held. “I used my powers on her… to make her my thrall. It weakened her mind, breaking it down until her body followed. Her stroke—her paralysis—were the byproducts of my influence.”
Wyll’s expression contorted with raw, furious grief. His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. Rage crackled in his gaze like a storm about to break. With a growl, he summoned his infernal rapier, the blade crackling with an otherworldly purple energy. “Die,” he snarled, and with a swift, vicious swing, he unleashed a psionic slash that tore through the Emperor, severing its head from its body in one smooth, deadly arc.
For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the sickening sound of blood spurting from the Emperor’s neck. Wyll stood over the body, chest heaving, fists clenched in fury and sorrow. His jaw tightened, and he spat to the side, the infernal rapier fading from his grasp, leaving him alone with the weight of his vengeance.
Karlach walked behind him and gently wrapped her arms around him in a loving embrace. Her warmth and strength enveloped him, offering a silent comfort amidst the chaos. Wyll's rigid posture softened slightly as he leaned into her embrace, the weight of his actions and the burden of his emotions finding a momentary solace in her presence.
Alex stepped forward, kneeling beside the mindflayer’s head. Dark tendrils of flesh extended from his hand, wrapping around the severed head, drawing it closer and consuming it. The Emperor’s memories flooded into Alex’s mind—a twisted tapestry of manipulation, betrayal, and ambition. He absorbed it all, each memory melding with his own consciousness, the knowledge of the Emperor’s sordid past settling upon him.
“So, what’s the rest of the story?” Astarion’s voice cut through the silence, a dark curiosity in his tone. There was no sympathy, only an insatiable hunger for truth.
Alex looked up, his gaze distant as he sorted through the newly acquired memories. “Gortash found him after his transformation. Brought him back to the colony, not as an ally, but as a twisted joke—a mockery. He called him ‘The Emperor’ to remind him of what he’d lost. Even enslaved, stripped of his humanity, he clung to that title.”
He paused, the weight of the Emperor’s life settling on him. “The Emperor was part of the group sent to steal the Astral Prism. When he touched it, the power within—Orpheus’s power—snapped his connection to the Elder Brain, giving him a semblance of freedom. But even then, he was never free. He only used others to serve his own survival, discarding them when they were no longer useful.”
Gale’s eyes narrowed, his curiosity tempered with a cold detachment. “Could he have been trusted, Alex?” His question was clinical, almost detached, as if evaluating a specimen rather than a person.
Alex shook his head. “Once they become a mindflayer, their emotions are twisted, stripped away. They become ruthless thinkers, guided by survival and manipulation. To the Emperor, we were just tools—a means to an end, nothing more.” He looked down at the body, a glimmer of pity in his eyes, yet tempered by the knowledge of what the creature had done. “Belynne Stelmane was just one of many. He would have used any of us, discarded us without a second thought, just as he did her.”
The group fell silent, each member wrestling with their own emotions.
For Alex, it was the weight of knowledge—of understanding just how deeply corruption could take root in even the greatest of heroes.
Karlach, her voice uncharacteristically soft, finally broke the silence. “It’s sad, really. A hero twisted into a monster. Makes you wonder… could any of us end up like that?”
Astarion’s laugh was hollow, bitter. “We already dance with shadows, my dear. It’s just a matter of how far we’re willing to go before we lose ourselves.”
Orpheus's slow, rhythmic applause broke the silence, drawing everyone’s gaze. His expression held both approval and a hint of grim satisfaction. "The ghaik has met a fate well earned," he declared, his voice resonating with a commanding authority. His gaze swept over Alex’s companions, lingering for a moment longer on Lae'zel. She held his stare with pride, her own loyalty to her people shining in her eyes.
"I will gather my strength," Orpheus continued, his voice weighted with the exhaustion of countless years of imprisonment. "Aeons of entrapment have left me weakened, but when the time is right, I will summon you. Together, we will hunt down the escaped Elder Brain, no matter where its cowardice takes it—even if it brings us to the world’s edge. And when it is finally slain, our paths will diverge, as is the nature of this alliance."
With a graceful sweep of his hand, Orpheus conjured a shimmering portal. Through it, an opening in a dense forest was visible, the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the trees, a stark contrast to the dim and oppressive atmosphere of the Elder Brain’s lair.
Astarion sighed, looking somewhat deflated. "Such a shame I didn’t get to smash anything,” he murmured, his voice tinged with disappointment.
Shadowheart smirked. "You sound like Karlach."
“Hey!” Karlach shot back, her voice light and cheerful. “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a good smash!” She flexed her muscles with a grin, fire sparking in her eyes.
One by one, they stepped through the portal, each casting lingering glances at Orpheus and at the dark place they were leaving behind. The air was thick with unspoken promises and unfulfilled threats, yet an unbreakable bond had been forged in their shared ordeal.
As the last of the group approached the portal, Alex turned back for a moment, offering Orpheus a respectful nod. Lae’zel lingered beside him, her gaze fixed on Orpheus with a rare reverence. She placed a fist over her heart, bowing slightly, acknowledging him not only as her prince but as a warrior and ally. In return, Orpheus nodded solemnly, a mutual respect passing between them before Lae’zel stepped through the shimmering gateway, disappearing into the bright world beyond.
When Alex and Lae'zel had gone, Verik, Orpheus’s loyal Githyanki lieutenant, approached her liege. Her brow was furrowed, confusion etched deeply on her face. “My liege,” she ventured cautiously. “Why accept his partnership so easily? With your might, you could surely destroy the Elder Brain with just us alone.”
Orpheus’s gaze remained fixed on the spot where the portal had been, his expression thoughtful, almost weary. He let a moment of silence pass, the weight of his years and the knowledge he held pressing down on him.
"We are not fighting against an ordinary Elder Brain," he replied, his tone stern, each word heavy with caution and purpose.
----------------------------------------
The party stood in a tense circle, each of them visibly affected by the revelations they'd just uncovered. The truth of the Guardian’s identity , Orpheus, the lost prince of the Githyanki,hung heavy in the air.
"Orpheus…" Lae’zel murmured, her voice barely a whisper, yet filled with reverence. "Gith's only son. He lives."
The weight of her words caused Alex and the others to turn their attention to her, realizing the depth of what this meant to a Githyanki. For Lae'zel, Orpheus was not only royalty; he was a living symbol of defiance and destiny.
“Sorry to interrupt, but… who is Gith, exactly?” Gale asked, raising a tentative hand. "My knowledge of Githyanki history is rather… lacking."
Lae’zel muttered something under her breath—words that Alex, with his sharp hearing, caught and knew were far from complimentary. She took a breath, swallowing her irritation, and began to explain, her words flowing with both pride and bitterness.
"Long ago, when we rose up against our ghaik slavers, our mother Gith made for the Hells to secure an alliance with the archdevil Tiamat. Tiamat gifted the Githyanki our red dragons, symbols of our strength and dominion. Gith herself remained in the Hells, and Tiamat’s envoy proclaimed Vlaakith as our ruler. The first Vlaakith of many. It is Vlaakith One-Five-Seven who my people now call ‘queen.’”
Karlach let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “One-hundred fifty-seven Vlaakiths? That’s… quite a few.”
“Yes. She claimed undeath and has reigned for over a thousand years. But it was the first Vlaakith whom Orpheus tried to overthrow. Orpheus… was—is—Gith's only son. He led his mother’s honor guard in a coup against Vlaakith the First. Legend has it that Kith’rak Voss himself slew the prince in a vicious battle… or so our histories claim.”
Shadowheart, perplexed, furrowed her brow. "Wait—Voss? The Githyanki we met? How old is he?"
Lae’zel gave a sharp nod, while Gale offered an explanation, his voice filled with the scholarly curiosity he often displayed. “In the Astral Sea, time behaves differently. Beings can live well beyond their natural lifespans without a single sign of aging. The trouble comes when they leave; without protective measures, time rushes back to them all at once. I assume this is the case for Voss as well.”
"The air-headed magician speaks true," Lae’zel added, her words as sharp as a dagger.
Gale merely bowed his head. "Thank you, Lae’zel," he replied politely, though a faint smirk hinted at his amusement.
Lae’zel took a steadying breath, her eyes blazing with conviction. "Orpheus will tear Vlaakith’s empire to shreds and build new glory from its ashes," she proclaimed. "Every word Voss spoke was true. Orpheus is living proof of the queen’s lies—a living weapon against the ghaik that enslaved us. One word from his lips, and the people would doubt. Two, and they would rage. Three, and they would bow to the true heir."
Alex interjected, his tone careful but questioning. “But isn’t Orpheus a tyrant in his own right?” He had gleaned fragments of Orpheus’s past from the memories of githyanki he had consumed, enough to understand the duality of this figure Lae’zel revered.
Lae'zel shot him a glare, but she didn’t dismiss the question. Instead, she spoke with a defiant edge in her voice. "The historical slates portray Orpheus as a fearsome, terrible creature—powerful beyond measure and thrall to the ghaik. The tales say he was so mad with power that he would have smashed through the Githyanki Empire, delivering its shattered remains to the Illithid. They describe him as a lethal comet, blazing through the skies on his red dragon, leaving destruction in his wake."
She shook her head, frustration twisting her expression. "Lies, all of it. Vlaakith crafted that monstrous image to terrify our people, to keep them loyal. She was right to fear him, though—I’ll grant her that. The comet of his return would shatter her rule. Her grip on our people is a brittle thing, ready to break beneath the weight of his truth.”
Lae'zel's voice softened, and for the first time, vulnerability flickered in her hardened gaze. "It was not the ghaik visitor that Vlaakith wanted to destroy, nor the rebellion Voss hoped to lead. It was Orpheus himself—the Blood of the Mother, the Prince of the Comet."
“The Blood of the Mother?” Astarion perked up at the mention of blood, his interest piqued with a sly smile.
Shadowheart elbowed him in the side, rolling her eyes. He smirked back but fell silent, watching Lae’zel with an intensity that showed even he was drawn in by her story.