Alex raised his gaze as the door to the room creaked open. Gale stepped inside, his eyes red-rimmed, hollow, his expression as if his very soul had been torn from him. His presence cast a shadow over the already grief-stricken room.
To Alex’s right, Shadowheart stood beside her father. Her hand trembled as she placed it gently on his shoulder, offering what little comfort she could. He, in turn, clutched her fingers with a quiet desperation. His gaze never left his wife’s still form, wrapped in pristine white cloth. He had spoken little, only uttering that he would take her to where they had first met, to lay her to rest beneath the watchful gaze of the Moonmaiden.
On Alex’s left, Amanita stood close, her delicate yet unwavering presence grounding him. Her ruby-red eyes, filled with an unreadable emotion, never left his face. She rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. Alex reached up, giving her hand a small, grateful pat before he turned his gaze upon the others gathered in the dimly lit room.
Lae’zel, arms crossed but shoulders heavy with grief. Astarion, uncharacteristically silent, his crimson eyes reflecting a sorrow he would never speak of. Shadowheart, her heart torn between the joy of her family’s return and the agony of what had been lost. Gale, a man who had already lost much, now losing more. Amanita, quiet but watchful, the weight of emotions brewing beneath her composed exterior.
Together, they stepped out of the Elfsong Tavern, their silent procession heading deeper into the Lower City, where the flickering lanterns barely pushed back the weight of the night. Through winding alleys and forgotten streets, they arrived at an abandoned warehouse—no longer a place of trade, but a place for remembrance.
There, waiting in solemn quiet, stood the friends they had made along their journey—the ones who had fought beside Karlach, the ones who had laughed with her, shared moments of warmth and battle.
Jaheira and Minsc, warriors of a bygone era, their hardened faces softened with grief. Halsin, his hands clasped in front of him, mourning the loss of one whose fire had burned so bright. Lump , standing with uncharacteristic stillness. Shadow, Glut, Lara, Zevlor, Ellyka, Alfira, Lakrissa. Aylin and Isobel, their divine presence a beacon even in sorrow. The rest of the tieflings, those Karlach had fought so fiercely for, their faces somber.
Even the animals—Scratch, the loyal hound, his ears were drooped . The githyanki boy, watching in silent confusion. The owlbear, head lowered, a soft sound rumbling from deep within its chest.
They all turned as Alex stepped forward.
He raised his hand, the netherstone embedded within the chromatic orb in his chest pulsing once.
The world shifted.
No longer were they in the dim, forgotten warehouse. They stood atop a vast hill, the breeze from the sea rolling in, carrying with it the scent of salt and earth. The sky, tinged with hues of deep violet and fiery orange, cast its glow upon them as if the heavens themselves mourned.
Before them stood the statue.
Karlach, forever immortalized in stone, standing tall and proud, that same broad, carefree smile upon her lips. Her weapons—the mighty glaive and the war axe that had struck down so many foes—rested at her feet, embedded in the earth like guardians of her memory.
The sun dipped lower, the last golden rays illuminating the statue, casting long shadows over the gathered friends and family. A gentle wind stirred, carrying with it the faintest whisper, as though her laughter still danced upon the air.
Alex stood before the statue, his gaze unwavering as he let the silence settle over the gathered friends and allies.
The gathered souls formed a half-circle around the monument—their expressions solemn yet filled with respect.
Astarion was the first to break. He turned away, his shoulders trembling, his hand over his face, his usually sharp tongue utterly silent. Lae’zel, clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles turned white, her breath sharp and unsteady.
Shadowheart’s father knelt beside the statue, pressing a hand against the stone, his lips moving in silent prayer. Shadowheart herself stood before it, staring up at Karlach’s likeness, her body wracked with the weight of everything lost.
Gale took a shaky breath and stepped forward, his voice hoarse. “She deserved more.”
Alex stood at the center, gazing at the woman who had given everything. The fire in his heart burned low, tempered with sorrow, but still, it burned.
“She deserved everything.” His voice was steady, but his hands curled into fists at his sides. “And she will not be forgotten.”
The silence stretched between them all, unspoken words, unexpressed grief. And yet, in that silence, there was understanding. They had lost a friend, a warrior, a beacon of warmth and fury intertwined.
And they would honor her, always.
Alex exhaled slowly before speaking, his voice steady yet filled with emotion. “Karlach wasn’t just a warrior. She wasn’t just another fighter in our ranks. She was our fire—our heart. She burned bright, brighter than anyone I’ve ever known. She fought not because she had to, but because she wanted to—because she believed in all of us.”
A gust of wind swept across the hilltop, carrying the scent of the sea and the echoes of battles past.
“She made us laugh when the world seemed cruel. She never backed down, never let the weight of her own struggles stop her from protecting those she loved. She deserved more—more time, more joy, more of the life that was stolen from her.”
Alex’s voice wavered slightly, but he pressed on. “She was my friend. My sister in arms. And though she is gone, she will never truly leave us.” He lifted his hand, and with a whisper, the runes engraved into the statue came to life. A golden glow emanated from Karlach’s likeness, illuminating the gathering with a warm light, flickering like embers in the wind.
He turned to the others. “If any of you wish to speak, now is the time.”
Jaheira stepped forward first, her gaze fixed on the statue. “Karlach, you were fire itself. Fierce, passionate, and utterly fearless. May your spirit run free.”
Minsc placed a massive hand over his heart. “You were the best of us, Karlach. The bravest. Boo and I will miss you.”
Alfira’s voice was barely above a whisper as she stepped forward. “I... I wrote her a song. I never got to play it for her. I suppose... I will now.” She pulled out her lute, fingers trembling, and began to play a soft, mournful melody that carried across the hilltop.
One by one, each spoke, offering their words of remembrance, of sorrow, of love. Some voices trembled, some were filled with anger at the injustice of it all, but every single word honored Karlach’s legacy.
Finally, Alex stepped forward once more. He unsheathed Phalar Aluve, the holy sword shimmering with a silvery glow. With a deep breath, he plunged it into the earth before the statue. The blade pulsed, sending a wave of energy that merged with the light surrounding Karlach’s likeness.
“For you, Karlach,” he murmured. “For everything you were, and everything you will always be.”
As the last echoes of the melody faded, as the final words were spoken, the gathered friends stood in silence, watching as the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing Karlach’s statue in the last golden light of the day.
She would never be forgotten.
She would burn forever in their hearts.
The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, swallowed by the endless sea, leaving only the silver glow of the moon to bathe the gathering in its quiet luminescence. The gentle lapping of the waves below served as the only sound beyond the hushed murmurs of the mourners, each voice laced with sorrow, yet tinged with bittersweet remembrance. They stood together at the base of the statue, Karlach’s eternal likeness carved in unwavering pride, her weapons resting at her feet as if she had merely set them down for a moment of rest.
They had spoken for hours, sharing stories of her bravery, her laughter, the warmth she had given so freely to all of them. They tried to smile through the grief, honoring her in the only way she would have wanted—not with despair, but with life.
One by one, Alex sent them away, teleporting them back to their homes, their duties, their lives. Jaheira had been the first to leave, her hand lingering on Alex’s shoulder longer than necessary. Minsc had given a solemn nod, even Scratch whined before padding away, tail low. Isobel and Aylin left together, their hands entwined, whispering a quiet promise that Karlach’s name would not be forgotten. The tieflings departed in groups, some lingering, not quite ready to say goodbye. Even Astarion, usually so composed, had taken one last glance at the statue, his face unreadable, before vanishing into the night. Shadowheart had left to help her father with the preparations for his departure.
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Soon, there were only two figures left beneath the towering tribute: Alex and Amanita.
The wind carried the scent of salt and earth as it moved through the hills, stirring the hem of Amanita’s dark cloak. She stood beside Alex in silence, her crimson eyes reflecting the moonlight, unreadable in the dim glow. He didn’t look at her immediately. His gaze was fixed on the statue, on the carved lines of Karlach’s grin—the one that had so often pulled them all from despair, the one that no longer existed outside of memory.
“She would have hated this,” Alex murmured finally, his voice rough from disuse, or maybe from the weight of the night. “Standing still, being made into something untouchable. She was fire. She was movement.”
He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the night air. His fingers flexed at his sides, the chromatic orb in his chest pulsing faintly. “She wanted to see the world, to taste every moment. And now… she’s gone.”
Amanita turned her gaze to the ocean, where the reflection of the moon rippled across the dark surface. “Grief is greedy. It takes and takes. But if we let it, it can also shape us, like the tide carves the shore.”
For a long time, Alex said nothing. The wind whistled through the grass, the waves continued their endless dance against the cliffs, and the statue of Karlach stood unyielding against the elements.
“She meant something to you,” Amanita said softly, her voice not prying, but knowing.
Alex nodded. “She was family.”
Amanita hesitated for a moment before reaching out, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “Then she will never truly be gone.”
Both remained silent.
They stood there a while longer, two figures in the moonlight.
Neither ready to leave. Neither willing to let go.
And so they stayed, watching the ocean carry the moon’s reflection into the horizon, as though carrying Karlach’s spirit onward, toward the adventure she had always longed for.
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Two figures stood in the cavernous abyss, their forms dwarfed by the sheer immensity of the space. The air was thick with decay, the putrid stench of rotting flesh clinging to their throats with each breath. The walls of the cavern were slick and raw, covered in membranous tendrils of crimson and pink flesh that pulsed faintly, as if alive—breathing, waiting.
Gortash barely suppressed a sneer as he cast a sidelong glance at Orin, who stood to his right. The ever-present, unsettling smile that usually twisted her lips was absent. Instead, her gaze was vacant, hollow—lost. Her usual manic energy had been siphoned away, leaving behind only a shell of the woman she had been. She had lost everything. Her cult was in ruins, her devoted followers slaughtered. Her grandfather, who had guided her since childhood, was no more. And the god she had dedicated her existence to—Bhaal, the Lord of Murder—was on the brink of annihilation. All at the hands of the same entity that had nearly killed her.
Gortash felt no sympathy. In truth, this turn of events suited him. She had always been unpredictable, a wild animal that needed a tight leash. Now, with nothing left to serve but survival, she was less of a liability.
A ripple spread across the surface of the vast subterranean lake before them. The blackened waters churned, bubbling as if something immense stirred beneath. Then, slowly, the Elder Brain emerged.
Gortash's breath hitched involuntarily. It had changed. No longer the chained monstrosity they had originally bound, it had grown—bloated, mutated beyond recognition. The sheer magnitude of its psionic energy was suffocating, an invisible force that clawed at their minds. If not for Bane’s protection shielding his thoughts, Gortash knew he would have been reduced to a mindless husk, his sanity shredded by the mere presence of the being before him.
Beside him, Orin shuddered. Even in her broken state, she could sense it—the unraveling of control, the thin veil of dominance slipping. Her grip tightened around her dagger, its blood-red Netherstone pulsing with a sickly glow.
Gortash inhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. They had come here for a reason. There was no room for weakness.
"Raise your dagger," he commanded.
Orin did as she was told, lifting her crimson blade. Gortash mirrored her, raising his gauntleted hand, the deep violet glow of his netherstone illuminating the cavern.
At the center of the monstrous brain, fused into its abhorrent mass, the Crown of Karsus pulsed like a beating heart.
A cold dread slithered down Gortash’s spine. The balance was fracturing. Without the third stone, it was only a matter of time before the Elder Brain slipped from their grasp entirely.
“Go back to sleep,” he ordered, his voice firm, unwavering.
The Crown flickered. The Elder Brain did not move.
Gortash gritted his teeth. His netherstone flared, dark energy coursing from the gauntlet into the lake, into the abomination before him.
“I said—go back to sleep!” he barked, his voice echoing through the cavern like a thunderclap.
The Crown pulsed violently. The mutated Elder Brain gave a slow, shuddering tremor before, at last, it began to sink back into the abyss, its grotesque form disappearing beneath the black waters. The ripples faded. The cavern fell into eerie silence once more.
Gortash exhaled, his fist clenching as he fought to still his racing mind. This was a temporary fix, a fragile leash on an uncontrollable beast. And all of it—everything he had built—stood at the precipice of ruin, teetering because of one single act of defiance. That cursed interloper, the one who had slain Ketheric, had taken his Netherstone. Without it, control would eventually slip, and when it did, the world would burn in a tide of madness and destruction.
With a cold, seething fury settling in his chest, Gortash turned on his heel and strode away from the lake, his heavy boots striking the stone with purpose. Orin lingered for a moment longer, staring into the dark abyss where the Elder Brain had vanished. Then, with one last glance at the rippling water, she followed.
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The air in the dormitory was thick with an unspoken weight, the stillness pressing against the walls like a held breath. Alex stepped inside, his gaze sweeping across the dimly lit room. It was empty save for Shadowheart, standing near the center, clutching the Astral Prism tightly. Its faint glow cast flickering shadows across her face, illuminating the quiet storm of emotions in her eyes.
As he approached, she turned without a word, extending the Prism between them. It pulsed once, twice, before a shimmering projection of Orpheus materialized before them. The githyanki prince stood tall, his golden eyes calm yet burning with quiet intensity. He inclined his head in acknowledgment.
"Alex," Orpheus said, his voice steady yet laced with urgency. "I have felt the ripples of your battle against the forces that seek to consume this realm. The fight against the Netherbrain nears its conclusion, but something vital remains missing—something that may tip the scales in our favor."
Alex crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "And what is that?"
Orpheus’ gaze sharpened. "My warhammer."
Shadowheart’s brow furrowed. "How can a warhammer help against the Netherbrain?"
The prince’s spectral form flickered momentarily before regaining stability. "The warhammer is no ordinary weapon. Before I was imprisoned, I imbued a fragment of my psyche within it—my will, my power. It is bound to me, and through it, I can focus my psionic strength." A red flame flickered into existence in his palm, casting eerie shadows on the walls. "This flame is the bane of any creature with psionic abilities. The stronger the mind, the more devastating its effects. With my warhammer, I may sever the Netherbrain’s tendrils of influence and strike at its core, where even the greatest blades might falter."
Alex tilted his head slightly, skepticism evident. "And where exactly is this warhammer?"
A shadow crossed Orpheus’ features. "That is the problem. It was taken from me during my capture. Since my liberation, I have traced its presence across the planes, and now, it resides in the clutches of the devil Raphael."
At the mention of the archdevil, Shadowheart inhaled sharply. "Raphael… That bastard. Of course, he has it."
Alex remained silent, recalling all too well the deceit and manipulation the devil had woven throughout their journey.
"Why would he want your weapon?" He asked a few moments later.
Orpheus’ eyes darkened. "Raphael may seek to use it for his own ends. He may not fully understand its significance, but he will not surrender it easily."
Alex considered this, his mind already weaving potential strategies.
Orpheus smirked faintly, the glint of a warrior’s resolve in his eyes. "It is a challenge, certainly. But not an impossible one. You have defied gods before, Alex. I ask this not for my sake, but for all who stand against the Netherbrain. The warhammer is more than a weapon—it is a key to victory."
Alex remained silent for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. "Alright. If it’s as important as you say, then I’ll get it back."
Orpheus nodded. "Find my warhammer, and together, we shall bring an end to the Netherbrain’s dominion."
The projection flickered, then faded, leaving only the soft glow of the Astral Prism in Shadowheart’s hands. Alex exchanged a look with her, determination tightening his features.
"Guess we’re about to go pick a fight with a devil."
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The wind howled atop Ramazith’s Tower, carrying the scent of arcane power and the faint metallic tang of blood. A pentagram, drawn with deep crimson strokes, glistened under the dim light of the stars, its lines eerily pulsing with dark energy. The air was charged, crackling with the remnants of magic as Alex stood at its center, his expression resolute.
“I can’t say that I’m mad you decided to go by yourself,” Astarion began, his crimson gaze scrutinizing Alex, “but why bring us here if you don’t need our help?”
Surrounding the pentagram, Gale, Lae’zel, Astarion, Shadowheart, Rolan, and Rivalen stood in tense silence, each watching Alex with varying degrees of concern, curiosity, and wariness.
“Because I want you to be safe,” Alex said simply, his voice carrying across the tower.
That answer did little to reassure them.
Alex met their gaze without hesitation. “Raphael has a vague idea of my strength, but if he realizes he’s truly overwhelmed, he may try to harm you—to use you against me.” His gaze swept over them, his eyes dark, intense. “This tower has strong enough wards to prevent that. If anything goes wrong, you won’t be a bargaining chip.”
Astarion opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. The memory of Karlach hit him like a blade through the ribs. If they hadn’t left her alone that night, if they had been there to watch over her, perhaps she would never have gone into that cursed temple. Perhaps she would still be standing beside them now, grinning like a fool, laughing off the darkness that always loomed over their heads.
His grip on his dagger tightened. He still couldn’t believe Alex had let Wyll live. The bastard deserved worse than just having his memories erased. Wiping his mind clean felt like mercy—a mercy Karlach never got.
“But then, why is she here?” Shadowheart asked, her gaze flickering to Amanita, who stood silently to the side, arms crossed, watching Alex carefully.
“Naïve Shadowheart,” Astarion murmured with a smirk, though it lacked its usual edge. “Alex is fond of Amanita, and he doesn’t want to see her come to harm.”
Alex sighed. “She is my friend, just as you are.”
Astarion raised a brow, clearly unconvinced, but before he could press the point, Alex lifted a hand. “We can joke later, Astarion.”
Astarion scoffed but said nothing more.
Alex exhaled slowly, then raised both hands, his fingers twisting into complex infernal sigils. A deep, guttural incantation rolled off his tongue, the infernal syllables resonating through the air. The blood-drawn pentagram ignited, flames roaring to life in a perfect circle, casting grotesque shadows across their faces. The tower trembled slightly, as though the very fabric of reality protested against what was happening.
Alex looked up at them one last time. His gaze lingered, memorizing their faces, his family—the people who had walked beside him through blood, fire, and loss.
“See you soon,” he said.
And then, in a burst of flame and shadow, he was gone.