After finding a narrow, winding path, Alex led the group up the side of the stony hill. The climb was treacherous—sharp rocks and loose gravel tested every step—but soon, they found themselves back on solid ground, emerging onto the dusty cobbled street above. The familiar sounds of a city in turmoil washed over them: distant shouts, clanging metal, and the low murmur of frustrated crowds.
As they turned their gazes ahead, their eyes were immediately drawn to the road leading to Wyrm's Crossing. There, stationed with unnerving precision, stood six Flaming Fists, their weathered uniforms stained by dust and impatience. One of the guards, positioned several paces forward, was embroiled in a heated argument with a group of civilians demanding entry. The crowd buzzed with desperation, voices rising and falling like waves crashing against an indifferent shore.
But even the shouting fell to a hush as Karlach’s sharp gasp cut through the noise.
“What the fuck is that?” she muttered, her tone teetering between disbelief and alarm.
All eyes followed her gaze to the towering monstrosity that stood just beyond the guards—a massive, gilded suit of armor that loomed like a monument to intimidation. Its steel-plated form gleamed unnaturally in the late afternoon light, covered in elaborate gold filigree that felt ostentatious rather than noble. Reliefs of stoic soldiers adorned its upper thighs, their grim visages carved with unsettling artistry. A griffon-shaped helm crowned its head, its red plume fluttering lazily in the breeze. In its right hand, the construct wielded a sword that seemed more fit for cleaving castle gates than striking down men.
One swing from that blade, and even an ogre wouldn’t stand a chance.
Alex’s sharp senses picked up on something deeper: a low, mechanical rumble emanating from within the machine’s chest, like a beast purring in its slumber. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the creature. 'It has an engine', he thought. Beneath the armored plates, he could hear the faint vibrations of gears grinding and metal shifting, the plates clinking softly as they adjusted against each other. The sound was subtle, but ominous—like a war drum on the horizon.
“They were here before?” Karlach asked, her voice low and wary as she turned to Wyll. Her wide-eyed look betrayed a flicker of unease.
Wyll’s expression mirrored hers. His brows knit together in confusion. “I don’t have even the vaguest idea what that is,” he admitted, shaking his head. The warlock’s usual confidence faltered under the weight of the unknown.
“They’re Steel Watchers,” Alex explained, his tone clipped and cold. “Gortash’s inventions.”
The very mention of that name made Karlach stiffen, her teeth grinding audibly as she clenched her jaw. Her fists curled, trembling slightly as if she were holding herself back from lashing out at the mere memory of him. But with visible effort, she exhaled slowly, regaining control. Her expression remained hard, though her fiery gaze spoke volumes.
Nearby, a man’s voice rose above the hum of the crowd, sharp and filled with frustration. “I heard the stories! They said we’d be safe in Baldur’s Gate!” he shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of anger and fear.
The Flaming Fist he confronted looked down at him with open contempt, his posture rigid with authority—or arrogance. “Wait all you want,” the guard barked, his tone flat, dismissive. “We’ve got enough mouths to feed inside already. We don’t need your kind.”
The last words were spat with venom, each syllable laced with disgust. The crowd murmured uneasily, anger rippling through them, but their fear of the steel colossus kept them in check.
The guard lifted a hand and gestured sharply. With a mechanical groan, the Steel Watcher took a step forward. The ground trembled under its weight, the vibrations thrumming through the soles of their boots. The crowd recoiled as one, shuffling backward, their faces pale with dread. They knew what it could do. They had no desire to see it in action.
Alex, however, had other plans. With pinpoint focus, he reached out with his psionic power, honing in on the construct’s armored knee. A single bolt, hidden beneath layers of vibrating steel, softened under the force of his mind. A moment later, it snapped with a muffled pop.
The Steel Watcher swayed unsteadily, a groaning whine erupting from its engine before it toppled sideways like a felled tree. The ground shook as it landed with a resounding crash, splattering mud and debris in every direction. The Flaming Fist nearest to it was drenched head to toe, his shouts of confusion and panic echoing through the crowd.
The party turned their attention to Alex, disbelief etched on their faces. He offered no explanation, no smug comment—just a subtle wave, motioning for them to follow. They did, though their eyes lingered on him for a moment longer.
Except for Gale.
The wizard stopped in his tracks, his expression contemplative as he looked down at the winged Tressym still cradled in his arms. Tara peered up at him expectantly, her green eyes shimmering with curiosity.
“Can I remain here at the temple?” Gale asked suddenly, his voice breaking the momentary quiet. “I have so much to talk about with Tara.” His gaze drifted to the building behind them.
Alex nodded once, a silent agreement. Gale smiled warmly, gratitude lighting up his face. With a quiet word to Tara, he turned and began walking back toward the temple, leaving the group to continue on without him.
They hadn’t made it far when a voice called out. “Hey! You there!”
A woman approached from the other side of the road, waving a feathered quill and clutching a well-worn leather journal. Her skin was a soft blue-purple, small horns arching elegantly toward the sky, and her bright, curious eyes gave her an air of sharp intelligence. She was a Tiefling, no doubt, and her brisk movements betrayed both urgency and excitement.
She waved again as they neared. “Are you trying to get into the city?” she asked, her focus landing squarely on Alex. “Got a minute to tell me about your experience at the gate today?”
Alex held up a hand. “Slow down a second,” he said, his tone guarded but measured. “Who are you?”
The Tiefling grinned, her quill already scratching against the paper. “Name’s Lens. Roving reporter for the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette. My editor sent me to cover all the drama out here at the gate.”
Alex didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes flashed faintly as he reached out with his magic, probing her words for deceit. There was none.
Lens continued, oblivious to his scrutiny. “He wants some fluff piece about the heroic Steel Watch keeping the mob at bay—whether or not that’s true.”
Her eyes flickered to the Steel Watcher still sprawled in the mud, its inert form surrounded by panicked Flaming Fists, before returning to Alex.
Alex tilted his head slightly. “Aren’t journalists supposed to be impartial?”
Lens let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “We are. I am. It’s my editor who’s forgotten. Mr. Needle’s gotten awfully pally with Lord Gortash, and suddenly he can’t sing his praises highly enough.”
Astarion smirked. “And does your boss keep telling you how tasty Gortash’s feet are?” he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Lens chuckled despite herself. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” she admitted. But her humor faded quickly, replaced by a shadow of frustration. “Seems like everything we write these days needs Gortash’s approval. I can’t even recognize my own work by the time they’re done ‘editing.’”
“Seems like you’re printing Gortash’s propaganda,” Wyll said sharply from the side, his disdain clear in every syllable. His arms were crossed tightly, his jaw set.
Lens sighed, the weight of his words settling on her shoulders. “Doesn’t it just?” she murmured, her voice soft and weary. Her gaze dropped to the ground for a fleeting moment before she shook her head, as if trying to dispel the thought. “Of course, we’re off the record. This conversation never happened.” Her tone turned clipped and professional again, the mask of a reporter back in place. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some edits to make.”
She turned to leave, her boots scraping softly against the dirt as she walked away. “Have a great day,” she added, almost like a reflex—her voice hollow as it faded into the noise of the crowd.
Alex didn’t respond, his focus already elsewhere, but Karlach leaned in close, her voice low with curiosity. “So where are we heading?” she asked, her form a looming presence next to him. “You got a plan to sneak us into the city, or are we just wingin’ it?”
Alex tilted his head. “Yes, I do,” he said, his voice calm but cryptic. “But where we’re headed has nothing to do with that. We’re going to meet some friends.”
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Astarion let out a theatrical scoff from behind them, rolling his eyes with exaggerated flair. “Why are you always like this? So cryptic, so smug. Do you actually enjoy being this insufferable, or does it just come naturally?” His voice was sharp, but there was humor laced underneath the jab.
Alex didn’t miss a beat, his smirk widening. “A bit.”
They moved on, the path leading them to the side of the hill where a steep, treacherous descent awaited. Loose gravel tumbled underfoot as they carefully made their way down. The group stopped before a narrow opening—a cave mouth barely large enough to accommodate them.
Without hesitation, Alex ducked inside, disappearing into the shadows. One by one, the rest followed. Karlach grunted as she squeezed through, her broad frame scraping against the walls. “Blasted cave,” she muttered under her breath, though a faint grin betrayed her amusement. “Guess this was made for gnomes, not me.”
The further they went, the stronger a faint, musty smell became—like soot and damp earth mixed with a metallic tang. Karlach sniffed the air, her keen senses flaring. “Dark gnomes,” she said suddenly, her voice low and wary. “Smells like those gnomes—Barcus and Wulbren. I’d recognize it anywhere.”
They pressed deeper into the cave until a faint fiery glow lit the path ahead. The light flickered and danced, casting long shadows along the uneven walls. Finally, they reached a broken stone wall—a crude, jagged opening leading into a sprawling chamber beyond.
There, standing at attention near the gap, was a small figure—slender, with sharp eyes that seemed to pierce through the darkness. A gnome woman. Her hand hovered near the hilt of a small blade, but she relaxed when Alex stepped forward, his disguise dissipating in a shimmer of faint energy.
She moved into his path, her gaze searching his face for a moment before she nodded briskly. “The boss is expecting you,” she said, her voice clipped and businesslike. “Hasn’t forgotten what you did for him back at Moonrise.” She stepped aside but shot a lingering glance at the rest of the party, her expression unreadable.
Alex offered her a slight nod before leading the others into the chamber.
The room opened up into a vast forge, the heat from blazing fires rushing to meet them. The air was thick with the acrid scent of molten metal and smoke, alive with the sounds of hammers striking steel and the hiss of steam. Tools and scraps of metal littered worktables, and the dim, fiery light cast everything in shades of red and orange. Gnomes scurried about, their blue and silvery uniforms streaked with soot as they tinkered and worked. Alex recognized some of them immediately—faces he had once saved at Grymforge, their expressions now marked by determination and focus.
A familiar voice broke through the din.
“Alex?”
Thulla came rushing forward, her face breaking into a wide, disbelieving smile. The gnome woman looked almost the same as he remembered, though her features were now marked by the exhaustion of life in the treacherous city.
“You’re here,” she said, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Good luck—it’s worse here than the Underdark. The city’s eating people alive. But I suppose that’s no trouble for someone like you.”
“How have you been, Thulla?” Alex asked, his voice softer, less guarded.
“Better now. All of us managed to make it safely to the city, thanks to you,” she said earnestly. Her eyes softened with gratitude. “If you hadn’t saved me back at the Myconid colony... well.” She shook her head. “I owe you my life.”
Alex offered a small nod of acknowledgment, but before he could respond, Thulla pointed across the forge to another room. “Barcus and Wulbren are waiting for you. If you need anything—don’t be shy to ask.” She flashed a quick smile before hurrying back to her workstation, already knee-deep in some project.
The group moved toward the indicated room, where Wulbren was hunched over a large, ominous contraption—a crude but deadly-looking device that resembled a submarine mine. Sparks flew as he tinkered, his focus unwavering. Barcus, meanwhile, sat nearby, brow furrowed as he read through a notebook.
At the sound of their footsteps, Barcus looked up sharply. Relief washed over his face when he saw Alex. “There you are. Good,” he said quickly, closing the notebook and striding toward him. “We need to strategize.”
He cast a cautious glance at Wulbren, then leaned in close, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Wulbren’s planning something—something big. There’s a lot of moving parts. Too many. I’m still trying to suss out all the details myself.”
Alex studied Barcus’s face, noting the lines of worry etched into his features. “You seem worried,” he said, his tone even but pointed.
“I am,” Barcus admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His sharp, dark eyes flickered with a mix of frustration and fear. “I know him. He’s always been rash, but this? This is different. It’s reckless. Unspeakable. Someone has to talk sense into him before it’s too late.”
His voice trembled slightly at the end, though he quickly composed himself. “Speak to him, Alex,” Barcus pleaded. “Help him see reason. If anyone can, it’s you.”
Alex met his gaze for a long moment before nodding solemnly. “I’ll try.”
Barcus exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, though the unease remained.
Alex approached Wulbren, who stood hunched over the worktable, his fingers smudged with soot as they traced the hasty scribbles in a worn notebook. Wulbren seemed so absorbed in his task that he didn’t notice Alex standing right beside him at first. The gnome’s brow was furrowed, his lips moving faintly as he read to himself, muttering half-formed plans and ideas.
“Wulbren?” Alex’s voice cut through the air, calm but firm.
Wulbren’s eyes shot up, meeting Alex’s gaze with sharp intensity. There was a tiredness there—a shadow of the torment —but it did nothing to dull the fire in his eyes.
“Good to see you,” Wulbren said gruffly, straightening up. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it to the city. Regretting it yet?” A bitter, humorless chuckle escaped him. “I spent a lot of time in that wretched cell at Moonrise thinking of worst-case scenarios. Didn’t imagine anything as grim as this, though.”
He jabbed his finger at the notebook, as if the pages themselves bore the blame. “The Gondians have handed Enver Gortash the means to bring about the end of liberty in Baldur’s Gate. And the citizens—gods, the citizens—have rolled out the red carpet for their new tyrant. Resistance fighters are scattered, dwindling... it’s down to my Ironhands, what’s left of the Harpers, and you.” Wulbren paused, his gaze narrowing. “I hope you’re with us.”
“Gortash is a dead man,” Karlach growled from the side, her voice a low rumble. The promise of violence in her tone was as sure as the heat radiating off her skin.
Wulbren’s lips quirked faintly, but his grim demeanor held. “He needs to be dealt with—before it’s too late. But it’s not that simple,” Alex cut in, his voice calm but heavy. “His death won’t be the end of this.”
Wulbren nodded, the mutual understanding of a shared enemy passing between them like a silent agreement. “As long as our objectives are the same,” he said, leaning in, his face darkened by the flickering light of the torches. “We have a common obstacle—the Steel Watch.” His voice grew louder, fiercer as he spoke, passion simmering beneath every word. “They’re a threat to you, to me, to every man, woman, and child in the city. They walk around all polished and civilized, servants of the people—but they serve only one man.”
He slammed a fist onto the table, rattling tools and scrap metal. “When Gortash becomes Grand Duke, it’ll only get worse. Laws will change. Freedom will vanish. People will be sentenced before they’ve even committed a crime, locked away because of suspicions, not deeds.”
Wyll’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white as Wulbren’s words sank in. “Baldur’s Gate will become the playground of a tyrant,” Wyll said through gritted teeth, his voice low with barely restrained anger.
“And the bloody Gondians are to blame for all of it,” Wulbren spat.
Alex frowned, something gnawing at the back of his mind. “Why put all the blame on the Gondians?”
Wulbren’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and unyielding. “Because they invented the Steel Watchers. And they’re building an army of them as we speak. They’ve always been content to sell their technology to despots for a few coins and the freedom to tinker in peace. They would’ve licked Sarevok’s boots given the chance, and now they kiss Gortash’s ring while the city screams.”
His voice dropped, rough with frustration. “I had a plan to stop them. But the way things are now, the moment we stick our heads above ground, the Watchers come down on us like flies on shit.”
“What was the plan?” Shadowheart’s voice broke the tense silence, curiosity and suspicion mingling in her tone.
“The same as always—eliminate the threat.” Wulbren’s eyes gleamed as he turned back to the worktable, gesturing to a metal device that sat in its center. It looked like a cruel artifact of war—squat, round, and riddled with arcane engravings, thrumming faintly with a malevolent energy. “The foundry where these atrocities are produced. The Gondians are clever, sure—but the Ironhands are more than equal to them. There’s nothing they can build that we can’t tear down. And this—” he pointed proudly at the device “—this is our answer. A runepowder bomb, first of its kind. Fifty wizards high on the Weave couldn’t summon this kind of firepower.”
Astarion let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Well, that’s a lovely piece of destruction. Can I come along? I simply must see it in action.”
Wulbren smirked faintly before continuing. “Get that bomb inside the Gondian facility, set it off at the heart of the foundry, and boom. Problem solved.”
Before Alex could respond, Barcus stepped forward, his voice shaking but resolute. “Wulbren, please. This is too far! Everyone in that foundry would be killed—innocent workers, families—all of them!”
Wulbren’s face darkened as he turned sharply to Barcus. “Quiet, Barcus. The adults are talking.”
“Barcus has a point,” Shadowheart added, her voice calm but icy. “It sounds like mass murder, not liberation.”
Wulbren’s gaze shot to her, his sharp stare cutting through the smoke-filled air. “It’s liberation,” he snapped. “The Gondians picked their side the minute they took orders from Gortash. If they had any courage, they would’ve refused him. They would’ve died heroes—spitting in his face. Now they’ll die like the dogs they are.”
“I like this one,” Astarion quipped with a smirk, glancing at Wulbren. “So small, so angry. Adorable.”
Wulbren scowled, rubbing his temples as if to stave off a headache.
Alex spoke, his tone measured but unyielding. “I’ll make contact with the Gondians. Maybe they’ll see reason.”
Barcus turned to him, his expression flooded with relief. “That’s what I’ve been saying! There may yet be a peaceful solution. Thank you, Alex.”
Wulbren scoffed but relented, throwing up his hands. “Fine. You want to flap your gums in the belly of the beast, be my guest. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Their idea of diplomacy is a steel fist shoved where the sun doesn’t shine.” He gestured to the bomb. “Take it. Just in case I’m right and you’re wrong.”
Alex nodded and raised a hand. A pulse of magic surrounded the bomb in a soft, glowing purple aura before it vanished, safely tucked into his storage.
“Please tell me you’re going to use it,” Astarion said from the side, his grin wicked.
“The foundry is in the Lower City,” Wulbren continued, his tone turning instructional. “Down by the docks. You’ll recognize it—a beautiful building, belching smoke into the sky day and night. Getting inside won’t be easy. But when you do, place the bomb at the heart of the facility and get yourself back to street level before it goes off.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Wulbren’s words lingering in the air like smoke from the forge.
Alex met Wulbren’s gaze, seeing not just the fire of a man driven by vengeance, but the cracks of someone who had been pushed too far—who had stared into the abyss and refused to look away. Whether this was justice or madness, Alex couldn’t yet say, but one thing was certain: the path forward would be paved with fire, blood, and impossible choices.