Whity stepped inside his tent, his white scales faintly shimmering in the low light. He was exhausted. His thoughts drifted to Rolaia, the little baby now under their care. Anchev was watching over her, but even here, alone in his tent, her name lingered on his lips like a whisper.
“Rolaia,” he muttered softly. A faint smile touched his face, though it was fleeting, eclipsed by the memory of her parents’ fate. Anger flickered in his crimson eyes, but he pushed it aside. “We’ll take good care of you,” he promised, his voice resolute yet tinged with sadness. “I swear it.”
As he laid down on the worn mat, trying to find rest, a sudden pain gripped his chest. His breath hitched as it felt like an invisible force was crushing his heart, squeezing the life out of him. His claws dug into the ground, his teeth bared in agony.
Then, a voice slithered into his mind, cold and sharp, like a blade dragged across stone.
“You resisted my influence until now, but this ends here. Such a waste of effort, only to turn defect.”
The words rang in his head, each syllable like a dagger scraping against his skull.
“Who are you?” Whity hissed through gritted teeth, his body wracked with pain.
The voice chuckled, a sound that made his scales prickle. “Ah, yes, you do not remember,” it said mockingly. “I am your creator. Your father. Bhaal.”
Whity’s eyes widened, the name igniting a storm of emotions—fear, hatred, defiance. “The God of Murder…” he spat, the words like venom on his tongue.
Another pang of pain surged through him, worse than before, making his body convulse. Bhaal’s laughter echoed in his mind, cruel and unrelenting.
“What do you want from me?” Whity gasped, his vision blurring, his voice trembling under the weight of his agony.
There was silence, heavy and foreboding, before the answer came—a single, chilling sentence that froze his blood.
“For you to die.”
An unbearable pain tore through Whity’s body, far beyond anything he had ever felt. It was as if every fiber of his being was unraveling, ripped apart piece by piece. His screams never left his throat, suffocated by the sheer intensity of the agony.
And then, there was nothing.
Darkness enveloped him, an infinite void where time and space ceased to exist. He floated aimlessly, his mind a tangle of confusion and despair. All he wanted was peace, a reprieve from the torment.
In the stillness, a voice, gentle yet vast, broke through the void.
“Who flickerest there? A poor, brave soul who hath defied the Lord of Murder—the madman in king’s clothing. With thy death, thou hast given life to all the Lord of Murder would see undone. Thou hast made good on the promise of thy better heart. Tell me... do the voices echo still?”
“I hear only silence,” Whity whispered, his voice weak, trembling.
The voice softened, almost fond. “Thou deserved as much. Let thy mind be its own place, thou mayest sow and reap. Ah, what sweet fruit might such fertile ground yield?”
A soft, knowing laughter echoed, reminiscent of an elder recalling a cherished memory. “Thy life may be forfeit, but thy death hath only begun to unfold. What awaiteth thee is a mystery even to me. I cannot account for thee. But I know thy story endeth not here. Death itself hath many byways, and thou might yet have a new and different role to play.”
The voice faded, leaving Whity alone in the vast nothingness, his fate uncertain.
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Anchev sat in his tent, staring blankly at its ceiling. Beside him, Rolaia slept peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The sight of her brought a pang to his heart—a mixture of love and sorrow.
“Helena…” he murmured, the name of his own daughter slipping from his lips like a ghost. Memories of her came flooding back, bittersweet and sharp. He remembered her fall, her corruption at the hands of Bhaal. And he remembered her death—Orin’s blade ending what little remained of the girl he once knew.
The haunting memory played out vividly in his mind, the sight of Helena’s corpse displayed in Orin’s temple. Anguish twisted his face as he whispered, “Twenty years imprisoned, seeking revenge for what was done to me… for what was stolen. And now…” His voice broke, and a single tear traced down his cheek. “I feel empty.”
His plan had been simple: confront his other self and Bhaal or at least die trying. At least then, his black rage would die with him. But now, even that had been taken from him. His vengeance was gone, his soul cleansed. And what remained?
“A monster like me doesn’t deserve to live,” Anchev murmured bitterly.
As if sensing his torment, Rolaia stirred in her sleep. Her small, innocent eyes fluttered open, meeting his with a gaze so pure it pierced through the darkness in his heart.
“No,” Anchev muttered, his voice softening. “There is still a reason for me to live.”
His moment of reflection was shattered by a howl—a piercing, infernal cry that scraped at his ears like claws on stone. Anchev’s body tensed as he grabbed Rolaia and rushed outside.
The camp was in disarray, refugees pouring from their tents, their faces etched with fear. Anchev scanned the area, his gaze falling on a group of panicked survivors.
“What just happened?” he demanded.
One of the men turned to him, pale and trembling. “There… there was a black sphere in the sky,” the man stammered. “It sucked the air around it, and then… it vanished. But not before that sound…”
Anchev’s jaw tightened as he offered a curt nod and strode toward Whity’s tent. He pushed the flap aside, only to freeze at the sight before him.
Whity lay on his back, his alabaster scales gleaming faintly in the moonlight. His expression was serene, as if he were merely sleeping. But something was wrong—terribly wrong.
Anchev approached slowly, dread clawing at his chest. He reached out, his hand trembling, and pressed it to Whity’s chest. Nothing. No heartbeat. No breath.
The realization hit him like a blow, and his knees buckled beneath him. “No…” he whispered, his voice breaking.
He stared at Whity’s lifeless form , his sadness visible. Whity’s promise to protect Rolaia echoed in his mind, a bitter reminder of what had been lost.
As Anchev knelt beside Whity's lifeless form, a maelstrom of thoughts churned in his mind. For a moment, he clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as the helplessness clawed at his heart.
Then, a thought pierced through the chaos.
‘That healer… Alex. He might be able to bring Whity back.’
Anchev’s memory of Alex was clear—the enigmatic figure who seemed to carry the weight of countless battles on his shoulders, who had promised to reconnect after finding Rolaia’s father. But Alex had vanished without a word, leaving them to fend for themselves.
‘Where could he be?’ Anchev wondered, frustration brewing alongside desperation. Alex had said he would return, but he hadn’t. Tracking him down would be a monumental task, a needle in the endless haystack of this war-torn land.
As he wrestled with his thoughts, a whisper brushed against his ear. The sound was faint, almost imperceptible, yet it sent a shiver down his spine. The words were unintelligible, but they carried a weight, a sense of direction he couldn’t ignore.
“Baldur’s Gate…” Anchev murmured, his voice barely audible. Somehow, he knew that was where he needed to go. Alex would be there, or at least he would find answers.
Taking one last, lingering glance at Whity, Anchev placed a hand on his friend’s chest. “I will bring you back,” he vowed, his voice filled with determination. Rising to his feet, he exited the tent with purposeful strides. The way into Baldur’s Gate was treacherous, but Anchev knew the dark paths—ways to smuggle himself into the city undetected.
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Far from the camp, Alex stood in a cavern bathed in eerie light, his companions gathered around him.
“Now that we’re done here, can we leave?” Astarion asked, his tone impatient. He leaned against a rock, his thoughts clearly on the comforts of a bunkhouse bed.
“Not yet,” Alex replied, his voice low and resolute. His expression was grave, his golden eyes flickering with an intensity that silenced the group. “There’s one more foe to slay.”
The declaration hung in the air like a thunderclap. The others exchanged puzzled glances, their brows furrowed in confusion.
“What do you mean? Ansur is dead, and the cave is empty,” Shadowheart said, her tone edged with concern.
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Alex shook his head. “Beneath this sanctum lies something far worse—something ancient, imprisoned for centuries. Trezorr, a primordial and an archomental of ooze.”
The name alone sent a ripple of unease through the group.
“Shit,” Gale muttered, his usual eloquence replaced by sheer disbelief. “Pardon my words, but that’s the only reaction I can muster.”
“Is it really that bad?” Wyll asked, though his tone betrayed that he already knew the answer.
“Extremely,” Gale interjected before Alex could respond. “The primordials—also known as Dawn Titans—are godlike beings forged from entropy and elemental energy. Archomentals, or Elemental Princes, are equally powerful, ruling over their respective elemental planes. Now imagine those two combined—a fusion of chaos and power unlike anything we’ve faced. If Trezorr escapes, the destruction could rival—or even surpass—that of the Elder Brain.”
The group fell silent, the weight of Gale’s words sinking in.
Alex broke the silence, his voice calm but firm. “And I’m going to stop it.”
“Alex, you just slew a legendary dragon,” Shadowheart said, her worry evident in the way her brows knit together.
“She’s right,” Karlach added, her usual fiery demeanor subdued.
A small, knowing smile appeared on Alex’s lips as he glanced at his companions. He could see the concern in their eyes, even from those who hadn’t spoken.
“The recent quakes have destabilized its prison,” Alex explained. “The magic sealing Trezorr was ancient draconic—intricate, yet fragile. It’s only a matter of time before the seal breaks entirely.”
Before anyone could respond, the ground trembled violently beneath their feet.
“Shit! Another quake?” Karlach exclaimed, steadying herself.
“No,” Alex said, his voice cutting through the rising panic. He turned toward the cave behind him, just as the ground erupted.
From the debris, something enormous emerged. It unfurled massive, ethereal wings, its body continuously shifting . The very air around it seemed to warp, bending under the weight of its presence.
The group froze as recognition dawned on their faces.
“By the hells,” Karlach whispered, her voice barely audible. “That thing is terrifying.”
It was the dragon form Alex had taken during the battle against the Absolute Army—the same form in which he had single-handedly almost annihilated the Elder Brain.
“Go back to the bunkhouse,” Alex said, his voice steady but commanding. “Rest there. I’ll deal with Trezorr.”
Before he could move, a hand grabbed his arm. He turned to see Shadowheart, her eyes wide with worry. Before he could say a word, she leaned in and kissed him.
Alex smiled softly at her, then glanced at the others. Each of them wore a mix of concern and pride. Even Karlach managed a shaky thumbs-up.
Without another word, Alex approached the blacklight dragon. Its chest opened, revealing a writhing mass of tendrils that shot out, wrapping around him and pulling him inside. The chest sealed, and the dragon’s glowing eyes locked onto the group one last time before it plunged into the hole it had created.
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Deep within the earth, Alex descended, the blacklight dragon’s wings beating against the oppressive darkness. The air grew colder, heavier, as they reached the bottom—a vast chamber dominated by a massive stone gate.
The gate was inscribed with ancient draconic runes, each glowing faintly. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, and several runes flickered weakly, their magic faltering. It was clear the seal wouldn’t hold much longer.
Alex stepped forward, his gaze falling on a weathered stone tablet at the gate’s base. Its inscription read:
“Trezorr’s Eternal Prison: Primordial Archomental.”
The orb embedded in Alex’s chest pulsed, feeding on the residual magic of the gate. The ancient runes dimmed further until the massive stone doors groaned and swung outward.
Beyond the gate, the air felt thick, heavy, almost malevolent. The darkness inside wasn’t just an absence of light—it was a presence, alive and seething. Tendrils of shadow writhed like living serpents, and the silence was deafening, broken only by a faint, wet squelching sounds.
From the abyss, it emerged.
Trezorr was a sight to behold—a towering, amorphous mass of shifting, prismatic ooze, its surface glimmering with a mesmerizing, rainbow-like sheen. The colors shimmered and pulsed beautifully masking its deadly nature. Its sheer size was overwhelming; even in his draconic form, Alex felt like a mere insect before its monumental presence.
The ooze rippled, as though it sensed him. The faint squelching grew louder, echoing in the vast chamber. The air grew heavier still, pressing down on Alex with suffocating intensity.
Alex steadied his breath, his red reptilian eyes narrowing.
Trezorr surged forward, a tidal wave of gelatinous mass bearing down on him with terrifying speed.
Alex’s hands ignited with arcane energy, crackling like miniature thunderstorms. With a sharp motion, he hurled a barrage of searing bolts at the monstrous ooze. The streaks of magic cut through the darkness, momentarily illuminating the cavern like flashes of lightning before slamming into the creature.
What followed made Alex realize that this wouldn't be an easy battle.
The ooze absorbed the magic effortlessly, its surface rippling as though savoring the attack. Tendrils of translucent muck lashed out, feeding on the remnants of the spell like a parasite draining its host. The air grew colder, heavier, as the creature seemed to grow stronger.
'Of course,' Alex thought, his wings unfurling in an explosive burst. “A primordial wouldn’t just resist magic—it would thrive on it.”
As the ooze lunged, Alex shot into the air, the powerful beats of his wings propelling him upward. From above, he observed the writhing mass below, recalculating his approach.
“If magic feeds you,” he said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge, “let’s see how you handle something far more primal.”
Drawing a deep, guttural breath, Alex’s chest began to glow with an intense, fiery light. A roar tore from his throat as he unleashed a torrent of blazing fire, the inferno engulfing Trezorr and the cavern walls. The heat was suffocating, the flames dancing wildly as they consumed everything in their path.
For a fleeting moment, the ooze recoiled, its surface bubbling and hissing. But then it began to shift, adapting. The fire that should have destroyed it became a mere inconvenience as the flames were absorbed into its shimmering body.
Alex growled in frustration and inhaled again, this time unleashing a ray of pure, blinding white energy: Hellfire. The beam tore through the creature, searing its form and leaving a glowing scar in its wake. But just as before, the ooze adapted, its body shifting and hardening against the onslaught.
'If magic doesn’t work,' Alex thought, his draconic mind racing, 'then brute force it is.'
He shot upward toward the ceiling, his massive frame glowing as psionic energy coursed through him. Before him, a singularity began to form—a swirling, dense black sphere that radiated sheer destruction.
Below, Trezorr writhed. Tendrils lashed out toward Alex, but before they could reach him, he teleported out of range leaving behind the black sphere.
With a flick of his clawed hand, Alex released the singularity. The black hole descended slowly, an ominous harbinger of annihilation. The instant it made contact with one of Trezorr’s tendrils, it expanded violently, absorbing everything in its path. The cavern shook as debris and fragments of Trezorr’s massive form were consumed by the void.
When the black hole dissipated, a massive chunk of the ooze was gone. The once-monolithic creature now bore a gaping void in its form.
Alex hovered inspecting Trezorr's body. The attack had been effective, but it wasn’t enough. 'I’ll need to do that dozens of times to bring it down,' he thought grimly.
His form shifted slightly, his scales glowing with psionic energy as his nervous system reconfigured itself. His emotions faded, replaced by cold, calculating logic. The world around him seemed to warp as his psionic power surged, his mind sharpening to a razor’s edge.
After releasing another black hole, Alex hung in the air, his massive wings beating steadily, his mind racing. The once-promising strategy of singularities had lost its edge. The ooze adapted faster than he anticipated, absorbing the psionic energy from the black holes and detonating them prematurely. With each failed attack, Trezorr seemed to grow stronger, its prismatic body pulsating with an unnatural, overwhelming power.
Hovering near the cavern’s ceiling, Alex’s crimson eyes narrowed, his mind working at lightning speed. He replayed every spell, every attack, every strategy he had used. Magic was useless—whether it was woven magic, shadow magic, or raw elemental force. His claws, fangs, and physical strikes had proven even less effective, and now even his psionic abilities, his greatest advantage, were faltering.
His options were dwindling.
And then, like a spark in the void, it came to him—a single, desperate idea. Something dangerous, something reckless. But it might just work.
Alex soared higher, his blacklight dragon form becoming a silhouette against the jagged, glowing ceiling of the prison. His wings stretched wide as he hovered, his breath steadying, his focus sharpening. Below, Trezorr writhed, its immense body shimmering in the dim, fractured light of the cavern. It seemed to sense the shift in Alex’s resolve, the air thickening with its growing unease.
With a deafening roar, Alex folded his wings and dive-bombed, his massive body hurtling toward the monstrous ooze. His psionic energy surged, enveloping him in a shimmering, translucent aura. Faster and faster he fell, the pressure building around him until the very air shattered with a thunderous sonic boom.
He struck Trezorr with the force of a meteor, his draconic body sinking deep into the creature’s gelatinous form. The ooze quaked violently, its mass rippling and convulsing as Alex burrowed further into its core. The world became a kaleidoscope of shifting colors, suffocating darkness, and the sickening squelch of primordial muck as Alex pressed deeper, refusing to stop.
Deep within Trezorr’s body, Alex came to a halt. He could feel the creature’s oppressive magic pressing in on him, trying to digest him, to assimilate him. But Alex was no ordinary prey.
He closed his eyes, his orb stirring to life within his chest. A low, guttural hum resonated through his body as it began to siphon away the magic saturating Trezorr’s form. At first, it was subtle—a faint glow as streams of light began to flow into the orb. Then the pull became violent, a tidal wave of energy being ripped away from the ooze’s body.
Trezorr reacted instantly, its form convulsing wildly as it realized what was happening. The once-silent predator roared, a soundless scream that reverberated through the cavern, shaking the very foundations of its prison. Tendrils lashed inward, coiling around Alex in a desperate attempt to expel him.
But Alex didn’t budge.
“You’ve feasted on everything that’s come your way,” Alex growled, his voice echoing in the void of Trezorr’s body. “Now it’s my turn.”
Tendrils of dark, writhing flesh erupted from Alex’s body, extending deep into the creature’s core. The tendrils burrowed outward, anchoring him as they began to consume Trezorr from within. The ooze’s shimmering surface rippled violently as Alex’s parasitic attack tore through it. The orb in his chest pulsed brighter, growing hotter, its siphoning unstoppable.
Trezorr thrashed, its prismatic body shimmering erratically as it desperately tried to force Alex out. It writhed and coiled, slamming itself against the cavern walls in a desperate attempt to dislodge the intruder. But it was too late.
The ooze's attempts to digest Alex backfired spectacularly. Trezorr’s essence—its magic, its life force—was being consumed, drained into the relentless void of the orb. The creature’s form began to collapse, its colors fading, its mass shrinking as Alex devoured it from the inside out.
Inside the ooze, Alex felt the shift. Trezorr was weakening, its colossal presence diminishing with every passing second. The orb in his chest burned brighter and hotter, pulling the primordial’s power into its infinite depths.
Trezorr let out one final, deafening roar—a sound that was both rage and despair, a last stand of defiance. The cavern trembled, chunks of stone falling from the ceiling as the creature’s body began to collapse in on itself.
Alex’s tendrils dug deeper, siphoning the last remnants of the ooze’s power , followed by a brilliant flash of light that illuminated the cavern in blinding, white-hot radiance.
And then, silence.
The once-monstrous form of Trezorr was gone, its essence consumed entirely. The cavern was still, the oppressive weight of the primordial’s presence lifted.
Alex stood amidst the remnants of the battlefield. The orb in his chest pulsed faintly, its light fading as it settled, sated.
“It’s done,” he whispered, his voice raw, barely audible in the vast, empty chamber.
The silence that followed was almost deafening. Alex looked around the desolate prison, now nothing more than a hollow tomb. He unfurled his wings and with a final beat, took to the air.