Karlach felt to her knees before Wyll, her massive frame trembling with exhaustion. Blood pooled beneath her, seeping into the cracks of the cold stone floor. Deep gashes marred her once-impenetrable scales, now cracked and shattered, her body bearing the toll of their brutal battle. Her breath came ragged, uneven, each inhale a battle against the pain that racked her body.
Her gaze was fixed downward, avoiding the man standing over her. Tears streamed freely down her face, glistening against her ruby-hued skin. They weren’t tears of pain, nor even fear. They were tears of grief, of loss. The Wyll she had known, the man she had fought beside, the man she had loved—he was gone.
Wyll loomed over her like a specter, his silhouette bathed in writhing shadows. They coiled around him, whispering, shifting, almost sentient in their delight at Karlach’s suffering. The faint glow of violet light flickered from the depths of those shadows, licking at the air like embers starved for fuel.
His rapier, once a weapon of justice, now pulsed with dark energy. Its edge shimmered with cruel intent, black tendrils curling around it like vipers eager to strike. His eyes—once warm and filled with purpose—were now cold, devoid of anything but the hunger for power. A deep purple glow burned within them, unnatural, endless, consuming.
Karlach’s shoulders trembled, her sobs silent, her heart broken beyond repair. There were no more words to say, no more pleas to make. Wyll had made his choice. The man she had loved was dead, and in his place stood a monster wrapped in shadow.
Wyll took a step closer, his shadowy form eclipsing her, his expression unreadable. He lifted his rapier high, the blade gleaming with cruel purpose. The chamber’s dim torchlight reflected off its surface, casting eerie, flickering patterns across the walls.
Karlach didn’t move. She didn’t resist. She simply closed her eyes, resigning herself to the end.
The blade came down.
A sharp, clean sound of steel meeting flesh rang through the chamber, followed by an eerie silence.
Karlach’s head hit the stone floor, rolling slightly before coming to a stop. Her expression remained frozen in that final moment—her golden eyes wide with pain, sorrow, and regret. Her lips, parted slightly, as if she had wanted to speak one last word. But there was no time, no chance.
The chamber was silent, save for the faint crackling of torch flames.
Wyll exhaled slowly, lowering his weapon. The shadows around him pulsed, seemingly pleased by the offering. He turned away from Karlach’s lifeless body, his expression unchanging, untouched by guilt or remorse.
Viconia watched him from across the chamber, her silver eyes unreadable, her face carved from stone. Then, after a long pause, she inclined her head ever so slightly. “Very good,” she murmured, her voice smooth as silk. “Welcome into our ranks, Wyll Ravengard. May the darkness consume the world.”
Wyll met her gaze, and for the first time, he felt the weight of what he had done settle over him—not as a burden, but as a mantle. A smirk curled his lips as he gave the response that sealed his fate.
“May the darkness consume the world.”
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Shadowheart and Alex walked into the Elfsong Tavern, a small smile playing on both their lips as they made their way to a table. The warm glow of lanterns bathed the room in golden light, the gentle hum of conversation blending with the faint melody of a bard’s lute in the background.
Alex felt a familiar mind within the hall, a presence that tugged at his awareness like an old thread never quite severed. His gaze swept across the room until it landed on a tall man seated near the hearth, cradling something in his arms. Anchev.
For a moment, their eyes met. There was something unspoken in that glance—sadness, longing, hope. Alex exhaled, his fingers drumming softly against the wooden table. He turned his attention to Shadowheart, who was already watching him, understanding in her eyes.
She sighed softly, tilting her head towards him. “Go do what you have to do.”
Alex reached out, pressing a brief kiss to her forehead before standing and making his way to Anchev. He slid into the seat opposite him, silence settling between them like a third presence.
Anchev looked different than Alex remembered. There was weariness in the way his shoulders slumped, his usually commanding frame burdened with something heavier than steel. His massive hand gently cradled the small bundle in his arms—a baby tiefling, wrapped snugly in soft wool. She slept peacefully, her tiny face relaxed, a small smile tugging at her lips as she dreamed.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
It was Anchev who broke the silence first.
“The white half-dragon is dead.” His voice was even, but there was something brittle beneath the words. “I found him in his tent, lying on his back with a peaceful expression.”
He lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Alex. There was no demand, no accusation—just a quiet plea wrapped in the weight of loss.
“Can you revive him?” he asked.
Alex hesitated, considering the question. Then, after a long moment, he gave a single, solemn nod.
Anchev’s shoulders relaxed, just slightly, as if the weight had lifted, if only for a moment.
Alex stood, exchanging a brief glance with Shadowheart across the room before turning back to Anchev. Together, they left the tavern, stepping into the cool night air.
He led Anchev down a narrow alley, the world around them shimmering as reality bent to his will. In an instant, they were no longer in Baldur’s Gate but standing outside Tav’s tent, the familiar scent of the wilderness hanging in the air.
Anchev blinked, momentarily disoriented before turning toward the tent. Alex stepped inside first.
Tav’s body lay exactly as Anchev had described, still, undisturbed, as though merely sleeping.
Alex raised his hand, murmuring the incantation that would pull Tav’s soul back to the mortal plane. The air hummed with magic, the tent filling with a pulse of energy. But then, as quickly as it had begun, the spell snapped.
Alex’s hand fell slowly to his side, his expression darkening.
“There is nothing I can do.”
Anchev’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening. “Why?”
Alex exhaled, glancing down at Tav’s peaceful face. “His soul has departed to a place I cannot reach.”
Anchev clenched his fists before looking back at his fallen friend. Slowly, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his expression unreadable.
Alex turned toward the exit of the tent, but he paused at Anchev’s next words.
“Are you the one who killed the other me? The one who brought me back?”
Alex did not turn around, offering only a slow, quiet nod before stepping outside.
Anchev remained behind, standing motionless as the sound of Alex’s footsteps faded into the night. He looked down at the baby tiefling in his arms, his thumb gently brushing against her small, delicate fingers.
“There is no more reason to stay here,” he murmured to himself, his gaze lingering on Tav for a final moment before turning toward Rolaia, determination settling into his features like a storm on the horizon.
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Astarion and Lae'zel stood proud in the center of the fighting ring, their chests heaving with exertion. Another pair of fighters lay sprawled at their feet, moaning in pain, their defeat absolute. Around them, the crowd roared—some cheering their victory, others cursing their names, lamenting lost coin as wagers crumbled in their grasp.
But the revelry came to an abrupt halt.
A massive blue projection of Vlaakith, the Eternal Lich Queen of the Githyanki, materialized before them, towering above the ring like an unforgiving specter. The air grew tense, the weight of her presence suffocating. Lae'zel’s lips curled into a sneer, her eyes burning with contempt.
"Queen Vlaakith—tsk'va!" she spat, her tone laced with disdain.
Vlaakith's voice boomed across the arena, rattling the very ground beneath their feet. "You are Hshar'lak, and still you dare to speak my name?"
Lae'zel stepped forward, unbowed. "I have seen Orpheus with my own eyes. I have spoken with Kith'rak Voss. You lied to us. You enslaved us."
"The betrayer Voss LIES!" Vlaakith’s voice flared with fury, her ethereal form crackling with violent energy. But then, as if restraining herself, her voice softened, taking on a calculated intensity. "I have only a moment. And you, Hshar'lak, will listen."
The crowd had fallen silent, their awe palpable as Vlaakith’s spectral form seemed to expand, filling every corner of the chamber with her presence.
"We are Githyanki. We move mountains, we snuff out stars, we shake the very planes of existence. The traitor Voss deceives you. The Heretic Prince would shatter our people in an instant. The Great Dominion, shrunk to the head of a pin." For a fleeting second, there was something in her voice—not anger, but sorrow, regret almost. But it was gone just as quickly as it came.
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"Return to the Astral Prism. Slay Orpheus, the pretender. Serve me, and I will grant you ascension. You will be no mere warrior, nor Kith'rak—you will be Bahy t’Vlaakith, commander of dragons. My only, my chosen. This is your final chance. Kneel before me. Make your promise."
Astarion glanced at Lae'zel, gauging her reaction. He could feel the tension rolling off her, the coiled fury in every muscle of her body. Her breath was slow, controlled—but her fingers twitched toward her blade, and her expression darkened into something almost primal.
Lae’zel bared her teeth. "I gave you my faith, and you called me traitor. I gave you my life, and you sent your knights to hunt me down like an animal. I have witnessed too much, and you have given me too little." Her voice, though steady, held a sharp edge, like a blade ready to cut through any last illusion. "Finally, I can see. Orpheus will live. And I will hear his creed. This is my word."
A shimmering, ethereal blade materialized in her hand, pulsating with raw psionic power.
Vlaakith's expression twisted in rage. "Your word is nothing. You are nothing. The Kith'raki will—"
Lae’zel moved like lightning. With a powerful, precise throw, she hurled the blade, slicing cleanly through the projection’s head. The illusion flickered and sputtered, Vlaakith’s face twisting in a final moment of rage before vanishing into the void.
Lae’zel stood, her breath heavy, her muscles coiled like a panther ready to strike. Silence stretched across the ring, then—
"You are very lovely when you're angry," Astarion mused from her side, the amusement in his voice unmistakable. "I can already imagine the queen foaming at the mouth right now."
Lae’zel let out a sharp chuckle, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "If only I could see it for myself."
The moment of levity was brief.
The crowd stirred, and suddenly, a ripple of movement shot through the onlookers. From the edges of the ring, figures materialized, stepping forward in unison. Githyanki warriors, their silvery armor gleaming under the torchlight, weapons drawn, their intent unmistakable. Vlaakith had sent her assassins.
Astarion and Lae'zel exchanged a glance. A wicked, predatory gleam flashed in their eyes—this was no ambush. This was sport.
Astarion smirked, summoning his psionic armor, an otherworldly exoskeleton forming over his body, shimmering like a mirage.
Lae’zel answered in kind, blades materializing in the air behind her, floating like an arsenal of execution, ready to cut through anything in their path.
Time for another round.
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Lae'zel and Astarion strode into the Elfsong Tavern, their bodies marred with bruises and shallow cuts, yet neither of them seemed to care. Instead, they walked arm in arm, Lae'zel gripping Astarion's elbow as if he were a noble escorting his queen. Their smiles were sharp, victorious, the lingering thrill of battle still coursing through their veins.
Their gazes swept the tavern until they spotted Alex and Shadowheart seated at a corner table, laughter lingering between them as they talked, wrapped in a comfortable warmth.
"Look at you, lovebirds," Astarion drawled as they approached, his voice teasing but lacking its usual cutting edge.
Shadowheart arched a brow, smirking. "I could say the same for you two."
Alex leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he took in their disheveled appearances. "What’s with all the bruises and cuts?"
Astarion grinned, baring his fangs slightly. "You should see the ones who did this to us. Or, rather, what’s left of them."
"The battle was glorious," Lae'zel added, her voice rich with satisfaction.
The pair launched into their tale, recounting the ambush by Vlaakith’s assassins. Their voices carried with excitement, their words painting vivid imagery of shattered bones and blades clashing in the night.
As their food and drinks arrived, Lakrissa hesitated at their table. Her usual easy confidence was absent, her tail flicking anxiously behind her.
Alex’s sharp gaze didn’t miss the shift in her demeanor. "Lakrissa, what’s wrong?"
She glanced at the floor before answering, voice hushed, as if reluctant to speak the words aloud. "I spoke with Wyll earlier today. He seemed... lost. I won’t pry, but... Just—" she hesitated, then met Alex’s eyes, pleading. "Look after him. He needs it."
A shadow passed over Alex’s face. He gave her a solemn nod, his expression unreadable. Lakrissa nodded in return and slipped away to another table.
The mood darkened slightly, but the conversation continued, the weight of her words lingering at the edges of their thoughts. After some time, they finished their meals and headed to the upper floor for respite.
As soon as Alex stepped into the room, he stopped dead in his tracks. The world around him seemed to slow, the air thickening, pressing down on him.
Shadowheart turned to him, frowning. "Alex?"
He didn’t respond. Instead, he let go of her hand and walked towards the center of the room, where a small wooden box rested on a table. A sense of dread curled around his chest like a vice.
Slowly, he reached for the lid and opened it.
Inside, lying on a silk cloth, was a severed red hand. A tiefling’s hand.
The flames from the nearby lanterns flickered violently, the shadows in the room seeming to recoil.
Shadowheart, Lae’zel, and Astarion stepped closer, their expressions shifting from confusion to horror as they looked down at the bloody relic.
Alex’s voice came out quiet, but firm. "This is Karlach’s hand."
Silence crashed over them like a tidal wave.
Shadowheart’s face drained of color, her eyes locked onto the severed limb as if willing it to be an illusion, a cruel trick. Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides.
Lae’zel’s jaw clenched, fury rippling through her. Astarion, usually so poised, trembled with barely-contained rage.
"Who is the motherfucker who did this?" Astarion ground out, his fangs bared in a snarl, his usual aristocratic composure utterly shattered.
The hand vanished, disappearing into Alex’s psionic vault. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, his expression dark and unreadable.
"We will find out soon," he vowed, the weight of his words hanging in the air, heavy with promise and retribution.
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The party walked through the streets, guided by Alex, their footsteps echoing against the cobbled path as they made their way toward the west side of the city.
The structure before them stood solemn and imposing, a quiet sentinel by the water’s edge. Its weathered stone walls were softened by ivy, the greenery climbing and curling around the building like nature's attempt to reclaim it. Red terracotta tiles capped its sloped roof, casting a rustic charm despite the eerie silence surrounding it.
Stepping inside, the air felt heavy with an unseen presence. No one was in sight.
Alex moved with purpose, leading them to the right side of the room and through a door into another chamber.
There, standing before them, was a drow woman.
"Mother Superior..." Shadowheart breathed, her grip tightening around Alex's hand. "Viconia DeVir."
A smirk played upon the drow’s lips, her composed demeanor unwavering. "You still have the wits to recognize your betters. Good."
"What are you waiting for?" Astarion whispered to Alex, puzzled by his hesitation. But the words caught in his throat as Viconia faded into nothingness.
"An astral projection," Lae'zel observed, her sharp eyes scanning the space.
With a deep rumble, the wall before them slid away, revealing a descending staircase, its spirals vanishing into the depths below.
Alex moved first, the party following close behind.
They descended into a vast chamber that served as a crossroads. Three doors loomed ahead: two smaller, unadorned ones flanking the left and right, and a massive, ornate double door straight ahead. In the center of the room, an obelisk of black stone jutted upward, its apex adorned with a pulsating purple circle that radiated an unnatural glow. Around its base, a ring of purple candles flickered with eerie, otherworldly flames.
Without hesitation, Alex strode forward and pushed the double doors open.
A staircase stretched before them, slightly inclined downward, leading to an ancient stone archway adorned with black stones and the unmistakable symbols of Shar.
"Shit," Astarion muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is a temple of Shar."
Shadowheart’s breath hitched. Her gaze darted around the familiar architecture. "I remember this place now... A whole stolen childhood, spent in these halls."
The group pressed on, their steps cautious as they moved down the stairway and through a dimly lit corridor. A massive round door loomed ahead, its darkened surface carved with intricate sigils of the Dark Lady. As they approached, the door groaned open of its own accord, revealing the chamber beyond.
The grand hall stretched wide, its enormity overwhelming. Statues of Shar loomed in silent vigil, their cold forms bathed in the eerie glow of moonlight cascading through an intricately carved opening in the ceiling. The silver beams illuminated a raised platform at the center of the chamber, casting elongated shadows across the floor.
A figure stood upon the platform, his posture rigid, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Wyll?" Astarion’s voice broke the hush, disbelief lacing his tone.
Wyll turned to face them, his expression unreadable, his stance unwavering. The dim glow of the moonlight filtering through the carved ceiling bathed his form in cold silver light, but the unnatural shadows writhing around him like living serpents cast him in eerie contrast.
Alex took a slow step forward, his eyes locked onto Wyll’s. The air between them thickened with unspoken words, with the weight of everything that had led to this moment. He searched for something—anything—in Wyll’s face that might explain the madness before him.
Wyll's lips curved into a slow, cruel smirk, his gaze laced with something dark and unreadable.
"What are you doing here?" Shadowheart demanded, her voice unsteady, her fingers twitching at her side, caught between reaching for her weapon and holding onto the last fragile hope that this wasn’t real.
Wyll’s smirk deepened. "Just giving Alex what he deserves."
The weight of his words settled over them like a blade poised to strike, and the chamber itself seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the inevitable storm to come.
A glyph beneath them shimmered to life, pulsing with ominous energy. Before the trap could fully activate, the runes flickered and died as Alex absorbed the magic effortlessly. The fading light cast eerie shadows across the stone floor, but no spell would hold him back.
Alex’s voice was devoid of warmth, colder than the abyss itself. "You killed Karlach."
The words hit like a hammer, each syllable a judgment. The others turned to Wyll, their gazes flicking between the two men, realization dawning in wide-eyed horror.
Wyll’s smirk didn’t waver. Instead, he brought something forward from behind his back.
Shadowheart gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
Lae'zel growled, fingers curling into fists, barely restraining herself.
Astarion’s eyes widened, a rare moment of speechlessness overtaking him.
Dripping with fresh blood, Wyll held Karlach’s severed head.
The silence that followed was deafening. The air itself seemed to recoil in horror, the flickering torchlight casting shifting shadows across Karlach’s lifeless face—her expression frozen in an agonized mixture of pain and betrayal.
Alex took a step forward, the fury in his gaze burning brighter than any flame Karlach had ever conjured. But Wyll raised a single finger, his smirk growing razor-sharp.
"One more step, and Karlach’s soul will be gone."
Alex halted, his body rigid with barely contained rage. The others tensed as well, torn between fury and disbelief.
Wyll let out a breathy chuckle, as if savoring the power he now wielded. "Good. Now you’re listening."
"Wyll… why?" Shadowheart’s voice cracked, barely a whisper, thick with emotion. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the nightmare before her.
Wyll’s expression darkened, his smirk twisting into something more venomous. The shadows coiled tighter around him, feeding off his rage.
"Why?" he echoed, his voice rising as something inside him snapped. "Why!?" His breath hitched before he steadied himself, exhaling slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, unnervingly so. "I’m not going to waste my breath explaining. The time for words is over."
A portal shimmered behind him, an abyss of pure darkness stretching into nothingness. In its center, a faint flicker of light struggled against the consuming void.
"That’s Karlach’s soul," Wyll said, turning back to Alex. "Shar is holding it in her domain."
As if on cue, the shadows within the portal surged, tendrils of inky blackness snapping at the soul like starved beasts, pulling it ever closer into the depths.
"I suggest you go after it before the darkness snuffs it out for good." Wyll’s voice was eerily nonchalant, as if discussing a minor inconvenience rather than the eternal fate of a soul.
Alex’s fists clenched, his entire body coiled with tension. "What happened to you, Wyll?" Shadowheart asked, stepping forward slightly, as if she could reach him.
Wyll didn’t even glance at her. His gaze remained fixed on Alex, the smirk never leaving his lips.
"And don’t try anything," he warned, gesturing toward the portal. A single shadow sharpened like an arrow and struck at Karlach’s soul. The flickering light dimmed noticeably, the force of it enough to make the entire party stiffen.
Lae’zel’s grip on her sword tightened. Astarion’s breath came slow and measured, his crimson gaze locked onto Wyll like a predator sizing up prey.
Alex exhaled through his nose, suppressing the storm within him. He took one final glance at Wyll, at the man who had once been his friend, before stepping forward, his path set.
The darkness of the portal swallowed him whole.