As Alex and his companions exited the dim confines of Wulbren’s workshop, Barcus hurried to meet them, his face lined with visible worry.
“A runepowder bomb…” Barcus muttered, almost to himself, his voice low and troubled. He stopped in their path and looked at the ground as though searching for answers among the dirt. “What in all the hells has he become?”
Alex tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze narrowing. “I think there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
Barcus looked up at him, his expression creased with a mix of frustration and sorrow. “You’ll hear no argument on that score. But to use runepowder on the Gondians?” He shook his head slowly, his disbelief evident. “They’re inventors—like us. Persnickety and self-important, sure, but we all have our moments. Something’s wrong here, Alex. Very wrong.”
He stepped closer, his voice almost pleading. “Please,” Barcus said, meeting Alex’s gaze. The gnome’s eyes were earnest, reflecting a quiet desperation. “Speak to them before you do anything. They deserve a chance to plead their case before being blown to pieces, don’t you think?”
Alex regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he nodded once. “All right. I’ll speak with them.”
Barcus let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his shoulders sagging slightly in relief. “That’s all I ask. Questions first. Violence later. And only if absolutely necessary.”
With those words, the party turned and began their ascent toward the surface. The cave walls gave way to sunlight as they emerged, but no sooner had their boots hit solid ground than the earth rumbled beneath them. A violent tremor shook the ground, sending small stones skittering across their path.
Alex staggered, flinching as something sharp and sudden spiked through the invisible threads of his hive mind connection. He shut his eyes briefly, his breath hitching. The hydras he had sent to investigate the source of the earlier quake… were gone. Destroyed. Whatever lay there wasn’t just strong—it was monstrous.
“Alex, are you all right?” Shadowheart’s voice was soft, edged with concern.
“Yeah…” Alex muttered, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. He straightened, shaking off the lingering unease, but he couldn’t help but glance toward the horizon, where he felt the disturbance pulling him like an unseen force.
The others exchanged uncertain glances but said nothing as Alex guided them uphill. The path led them past a sprawling golden field, where a windmill’s creaking blades turned lazily against the breeze. The air smelled of sun-warmed wheat and wildflowers, a fleeting moment of tranquility. To their right, a young couple sat sprawled on a picnic blanket, laughing softly as they shared a bottle of wine and slices of bread.
The party moved past without a word, but the innocence of the scene—so out of place amidst everything they were facing—was jarring. The laughter faded as they crested the hill, and the peaceful facade of the world fell away.
Astarion froze in his tracks, his eyes widening.
Ahead, a somber camp spread out beside a weather-worn wooden cottage. A burning pyre crackled at the center, smoke curling skyward in a thin, dark plume. Around it stood a grim gathering of monster hunters, their expressions hard and grief-stricken. Scorched pieces of armor and blood-stained clothing lay within the fire, burning alongside whatever memories they represented.
An old woman stood closest to the pyre, her gravelly voice rising and falling in a guttural chant, ancient words that Alex couldn’t place. Despite her years, there was nothing frail about her—her posture was straight, her scarred face set like stone. Her white hair was cropped short except for one long, carefully swept section that hung just above her neck, stark against the faded leather of her battle-worn armor.
The party halted, unsure whether to approach, as the woman’s chant finally ended. Silence draped over the camp like a shroud. Then the woman turned, her sharp eyes settling on Alex. Her gaze was like flint striking steel—measuring, searching for weakness. She folded her arms across her chest and stepped forward with the slow confidence of someone used to command.
“We do not normally tolerate outsiders at a time like this,” she said, her voice rough as old bark.
Alex looked at her, his expression softened by an understanding of grief. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The woman’s gaze did not waver, and her expression remained hard as granite, untouched by Alex’s words. Her silence spoke louder than any response.
Seeing her resolve, Alex decided to abandon pleasantries and cut straight to the chase. “You want to kill Cazador, don’t you?”
At his words, the gathered hunters flinched visibly, their bodies tensing. Hands drifted instinctively to weapons—swords, axes, and crossbows poised on a hair trigger. The air buzzed with suspicion.
“Who are you?” the woman demanded, her voice sharpened with suspicion.
“I’m just a cleric,” Alex said softly. He raised a hand, and with a gentle pulse of magic, Phalar Aluve materialized beside him, the holy blade glowing faintly with celestial radiance. The divine aura it emanated was unmistakable. The monster hunters relaxed just a fraction, though their eyes remained wary. Alex let the sword dissipate and met the woman’s gaze once more. “By chance, our goals align. I want to work with you.”
The woman frowned, unyielding, but her voice cracked slightly when she spoke again. “For years, his foul spawn have stolen innocents under the cover of night—children, mothers, fathers—dragging them back to his palace.” She spat the word palace as though it burned her tongue. “Recently, they struck here, at our camp.”
Her voice faltered, just for a moment. “They took our children. Every last one—our whole future, stolen by those monsters. They tore us to pieces—vampire spawn and werewolves, both. I’ve never seen a vampire’s lair so heavily guarded.”
The old woman’s hardened exterior cracked slightly as she glanced at the hunters gathered behind her, some sitting slumped against crates and others clutching bandaged limbs. “What’s left of my tribe is wounded and broken. We cannot stand against him, not like this. But perhaps… a cleric with a holy sword like yours could strike Cazador down.”
The weight of her words settled heavily over the group like the smoke from the pyre. The woman’s stoic facade trembled at its edges, grief carving deep lines into her face.
Astarion stood just behind Alex, his shoulders stiff, his jaw set tightly. At her words, his eyes darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He said nothing, but Alex noticed his tension—the way he held himself like a coiled spring, ready to snap.
The silence stretched long, punctuated only by the crackle of burning wood and the distant whistle of the wind through the wheat.
Alex met the woman’s gaze. “We will help you,” he said finally, his voice steady and resolute.
The old woman exhaled slowly, the hardness returning to her features. She nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of their shared purpose. “Then let us hope you’re as strong as you look, cleric. Cazador will not go quietly into the grave.”
“The main entrance is blockaded,” the old woman said, her tone grim as she folded her arms tightly across her chest. “But there’s another way. Near the park, you’ll find a broken tower—mid-repair, its scaffolding half-finished. Climb it. From there, you can enter Cazador’s palace. It may be watched, but you won’t walk into the slaughter we did.”
The memory seemed to flash across her face—a faint quiver in her jaw, her eyes momentarily distant, as though she could still hear the screams from that day. She took a sharp breath, regaining her composure, her gaze once more a steady blade as it rested on Alex.
“May the gods keep you and damn your enemies,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of an old prayer, one spoken far too many times.
With a solemn nod, Alex turned, leading his companions away from the camp. Behind them, the smoke of the pyre rose into the sky like a mourning banner, and the sounds of crackling flames faded slowly into the distance.
Once the camp was far out of sight, Alex guided the group into a shadowed alleyway nestled between two forgotten buildings. The alley was damp and cluttered with debris—old crates, broken barrels, and discarded trash. It smelled faintly of mildew, an all-too-familiar odor in this parts. Here, they were out of view, hidden from prying eyes.
Alex turned toward Astarion, his piercing gaze cutting through the silence. “Are you worried about Cazador finding out you’re back?” he asked.
Astarion froze at the question, his posture rigid. A storm flickered behind his crimson eyes—conflicting emotions twisting together like a snake coiling tighter and tighter. For a moment, the vampire spawn seemed younger, almost fragile, the weight of his past pressing heavy on his shoulders.
“I won’t lie,” Astarion said at last, his voice low but steady. “The thought hardly fills me with glee. Even with my newfound advantages…” His lip curled slightly, the ghost of a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s still an incredibly powerful vampire. My master. But he’s arrogant, too—too full of himself to imagine anyone could oppose him, much less me.”
The smirk sharpened, morphing into something dark and dangerous. Astarion’s voice hardened, his wrath palpable. “If he does hear I’m back, he’ll try to take me. Drag me back to that wretched prison he calls his palace. But in doing so, he’ll expose himself—and that’s when I’ll strike.”
The hatred in his words felt alive, thrumming with the force of centuries of suffering, humiliation, and the burning desire for vengeance. It crackled in the air like distant thunder, and for a moment, the group fell silent, absorbing the weight of it.
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“And we will help you,” Karlach said firmly, her voice warm yet unyielding, like an ember glowing in the dark. The fire in her heart matched the one in her eyes as she stepped closer to Astarion. “You’re not alone in this fight.”
Astarion blinked, a hint of surprise breaking through his cold exterior, though he quickly masked it with an elegant tilt of his chin. He said nothing, but the slight softening of his expression spoke volumes.
The party shifted into quieter discussion, their voices hushed as they began to plan their next move.
Wyll, turned to Alex with a furrowed brow. “So, how exactly do you plan to sneak us into the city? The security around seem tighter than ever.”
Alex crossed his arms, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “I’ve arranged for a series of teleportation gates to get us past the worst of the city’s security. They’re hidden—scattered across a network only I know. With them, we’ll slip through unnoticed.”
Lae’zel snorted from the side, her arms folded as she leaned impatiently against the crumbling wall. “Finally.” She pushed herself upright and paced, her eyes glinting as her thoughts turned elsewhere. “We must make haste. Voss awaits, and my people’s fate will not be delayed further.”
Her words were blunt, but there was no malice in them—only the impatient drive of a soldier used to swift action.
They made their way back to the Open Hand Temple
, its solemn stone walls bathed in golden light from the sun. Yet something was different this time. The air felt sharper, the energy stronger. Monks bustled with newfound purpose, their robes fluttering as they moved with confidence, no longer weighed down by despair. Alex’s revival of the temple’s leading priest had seemingly awakened its spirit as well.
Among the monks, some familiar faces stood out—thugs Alex had brought back from the death. But these were not the same men they had once been. Now, they were humbled, walking among the needy and offering help where they could. Their gruff exteriors remained, but their actions spoke of redemption.
Father Lorgan appeared as though he had sensed Alex’s presence. The older priest hurried forward, his face shining with reverence, his movements brisk despite his age. He reached into his tattered robe and pulled out a small item, carefully cradling it in his hands.
A red string.
“This is a gift from Ilmater himself,” Lorgan said, his voice trembling with both pride and humility. “A string imbued with a speck of his divinity. The last high priest of this temple gave it to me in my youth.” He stepped closer, holding it out for Alex. “Tie it around your wrist, and the pain—whether corporal or spiritual—will ease.”
Alex gazed down at the delicate string, its crimson hue glimmering faintly as though lit from within. Before he could respond, Father Lorgan gently took Alex’s hand and placed it into his palm.
“May Ilmater ease the heavy burden you are carrying, Holy One,” the priest whispered, bowing his head ever so slightly.
Alex paused, a soft smile gracing his face. He closed his fingers around the string, the warmth of Lorgan’s words lingering in his heart.
They found Gale near the back of the temple, mid-conversation with Tara. When he noticed them, Gale gave an exaggerated sigh, though his eyes lit with humor. “And here I thought you’d forgotten me for good.”
As they left the temple, Shadowheart glanced at Alex, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Holy One, eh?” she drawled, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “You’re gathering quite the collection of titles.”
Alex offered only a small smile in response. Names and titles meant little to him. It was the work—the help—that mattered.
They entered the forest, the golden hues of dusk filtering through the canopy. Birds chirped softly above, and the distant rustle of leaves gave the impression that the woods were listening. There, waiting for them, were their allies: Glut, Lump, Lara, and Halsin.
Wyll broke into a run as soon as he saw Halsin, clasping the druid’s hand with relief. “Halsin! It’s good to see you. You look well.”
The others, however, were staring at Glut—if it was Glut. The handsome figure beside Lara hardly resembled the mushroom creature they’d once known. He stood tall, radiant with an aura of calm confidence, his polished armor the only clue to his identity.
Gale narrowed his eyes. “Glut… is that you?”
Glut, standing beside Lara, glanced over and gave Gale the faintest of nods before resuming his conversation. A smile played across his face as he spoke to the woman.
Karlach grinned, her voice loud and unabashed. “Someone got hit by love—hard.”
The group shared small talk, catching each other up on their respective journeys. Laughter drifted through the clearing, though it was tinged with the knowledge of the trials still to come.
It was then that Lump approached Alex, the ground shuddering faintly under the weight of his heavy steps. The ogre leaned down, his voice quiet and surprisingly tentative. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”
Alex nodded, and the two of them stepped deeper into the woods, where the trees hung low and shadows stretched long.
“I want to come with you,” Lump said, his tone firm but edged with uncertainty. “Into the city. I don’t want to be left behind.”
Alex regarded him thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “As you are now, that would be… difficult. I could polymorph you into something smaller, but I have another idea.”
Lump hesitated. For all his size and strength, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
Alex gestured for Lump to kneel. “Trust me.”
With a wary glance, the ogre obeyed. Alex stepped forward and placed his hand gently on Lump’s massive head. A pulse of psionic energy rippled outward. Lump’s eyes rolled back, his body stiffening as the magic washed through him.
Moments passed, heavy and silent. When Lump finally stirred, he staggered to his feet. Something was different. His mind felt… clearer. Sharper. The fog of brute instinct had lifted, and he realized he was thinking in ways he hadn’t before.
“What did you do to me?” Lump’s voice held a note of awe—and fear.
“Consider it a gift,” Alex said, stepping back. “A reward for your loyalty to Halsin. Now check your memory.”
Lump closed his eyes. There it was—new knowledge imprinted deep within. A spell. Not one powered by magic, but something primal, psionic.
The air around Lump shimmered faintly. His massive form began to shift, his body shrinking and reshaping as if forged anew. Bones cracked and realigned, muscles tightened, and when the glow faded, Lump stood transformed.
A man now stood where the ogre had been—a towering figure, taller even than Karlach, with the broad shoulders and rough-hewn features of a northern barbarian. His skin was tanned, his hair a deep, wild black that fell to his shoulders. Jagged scars marked his face like badges of honor, and his steel-gray eyes burned with a newfound intelligence.
Lump looked down at his hands—human hands—and flexed his fingers. He turned to Alex, shock and wonder warring on his face. “This… this is extraordinary.”
“It’s no illusion,” Alex explained. “This is real flesh and bone. And with time, you can master it. You could take on other forms—greater forms. Who knows, perhaps even a dragon.”
Lump’s mind raced at the possibilities, but the sound of Alex turning away brought him back to the present. He hurried after Alex, his footsteps lighter, quicker—an entirely new experience.
When they returned, Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, her gaze skeptical as she looked at the tall, intimidating figure beside Alex. “Who’s this man?”
Alex gave a small shrug. “It’s Lump.”
Karlach stared at him, incredulous. “No fucking way.” She stepped closer, sniffing the air. “Oh yeah. That’s him. Still smells like an ogre.” She coughed, waving a hand. “Just… a much cleaner one.”
Before anyone else could react, Alex stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. “Is everyone ready?”
The group exchanged glances before nodding.
“Let’s go already,” Astarion grumbled, rolling his eyes.
Alex raised his hands, and the air around them began to thrum with energy. Magic gathered, shimmering like a thousand tiny stars, coalescing into a vortex of light. The sound of rushing wind roared in their ears as the forest around them blurred.
With a final word of power, Alex released the spell.
Puff.
The clearing fell silent. They were gone.
The attic space seemed to hum with life, vibrating faintly as the magic inscription on the floor pulsed with residual energy. For a moment, the glow of arcane symbols spread across the wooden floor like ripples in still water. And then—silently, almost imperceptibly—Alex and his group appeared.
The teleportation had been precise, their arrival disturbingly quiet, as though the air itself had swallowed the sound to avoid disturbing the building’s residents below.
Gale, ever the scholar of magic, grinned as he adjusted Tara in his arms, stroking the tressym’s soft fur. “What a flawless casting,” he said, his voice low but filled with pride. “It feels like yesterday that I was teaching you what the Weave was and how to cast fire bolt .”
Alex smirked faintly, brushing off the comment.
The party, curious and wary, took in their surroundings. It was a small attic room, cloaked in dim light that filtered in through wooden slats and a dust-frosted skylight above. The air was stale, carrying a lingering scent of mildew and age. Someone—likely Alex—had rearranged the furniture to make space. The bed had been pushed against the far wall, its thin, sagging mattresses testament to the room’s usual neglect. The shelves were mostly bare, save for a few scraps of parchment and empty, dusty bottles.
“Where are we?” Lara asked, curiosity softening the edge of her voice as her sharp eyes swept across the room.
Alex turned to face them, his expression neutral but purposeful. “We’re in a secret room located in the attic of Fraygo’s Flophouse,” he explained. “It’s a bunkhouse at the Wyrm’s Crossing—a place for wanderers, the lost, and the desperate. This room once belonged to Dolor, an assassin of Bhaal.”
A tense hush fell over the room at the mention of the Lord of Murder. Shadows seemed to deepen in the corners, as if the room itself remembered the horrors it had witnessed.
“The layout was far less… accommodating when I first found it,” Alex continued. His voice remained calm, but there was a glimmer of distaste in his eyes. “Jars filled with organs lined the shelves, trophies taken from Dolor’s victims. And under his bed…” He paused, letting the words hang ominously before finishing, “was the severed head of his own mother.”
A subtle shudder passed through the group. Lara’s face creased with unease, her lips pressing into a tight line. She cast a cautious look around, as though expecting something grotesque to linger in the shadows.
Astarion, clicked his tongue with exaggerated disappointment. “What a shame. I would have loved to see it in its former glory—organs and all.”
Lara shot him a look, her brows furrowed, but chose to say nothing. Instead, she turned her focus to the task ahead, clearly determined to move past the unsettling revelation.
Alex ignored Astarion’s commentary and crossed the room to a set of double wooden doors. The faint creak of the hinges echoed like a whisper as he opened them, revealing a narrow balcony. Cool night air rushed in, sharp with the smell of the river and distant city smoke. The muted sounds of life—talking, footsteps, clinking mugs—filtered up from below. Fraygo’s Flophouse buzzed quietly with activity.
Alex turned and gestured for the group to gather close. “Here’s the plan,” he said, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the tense silence. “I’ll teleport the first group down below, behind the bunkhouse. Once there, enter through the front, reserve some beds, and act as though you’re just another set of weary travelers. The second group will follow shortly after. We’ll keep a low profile this way—no need to draw unnecessary attention.”
He reached into his pouch and handed a small bag of gold to Halsin, who accepted it with a nod of understanding. “First group: Halsin, Lump, Lara, and Glut.”
The chosen four exchanged glances, bracing themselves. Alex extended his hands, and the air around them began to bend and shimmer. With a final, delicate motion, Alex released the spell.
In an instant, the first group vanished—silent and seamless—as though they had been plucked from reality itself.
The remaining party stood in the attic, a strange stillness settling over them. Astarion leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed but eyes sharp. Karlach paced subtly, her energy like a barely caged flame, while Shadowheart stood near the balcony, peering down into the darkened streets below.
Minutes passed, stretching longer than they should have. The soft creak of wood and the faint murmur of voices from below served as their only companions.
Finally, Alex spoke again, his tone steady. “Second group, ready yourselves.”
He raised his hands once more.
A heartbeat later, the attic was empty—silent and undisturbed as though they had never been there.