The shop had a quiet elegance to it, a place that bore the marks of both care and age. Shelves of fine leather shoes lined the walls, their polished surfaces gleaming under the warm glow of candlelight. The scent of freshly tanned leather lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of lavender and rosemary from the potted herbs arranged neatly by the window. Everything was placed with precision—nothing out of order, nothing neglected. Even the wooden floors had been swept immaculately, the grain of the timber softened by years of careful tending.
To the right of the entrance stood an older man behind the counter, his deep-set eyes dark and contemplative, as though weighed down by the echoes of a lifetime's experiences. He smiled at them as they entered, the expression warm yet oddly vacant, like an actor playing a well-rehearsed part. A thick mustache adorned his upper lip, neatly groomed and slightly curled at the edges, lending him a distinguished appearance. His hair, once black, had begun to silver at the temples, swept back from his face in a wavy cascade that framed his strong jawline. Though lines of time creased his forehead and the corners of his mouth, they did little to diminish the warmth in his outward expression. He wore a well-tailored green tunic, embroidered with delicate silver patterns along the collar and sleeves—modest yet elegant, befitting a man of refined taste.
A few steps ahead, beside a set of wooden stairs leading to the upper floor, an old woman was watering a small collection of flowers. Her face, lined with deep wrinkles, her skin weathered and tanned from years of toil and care. Yet, even with age's touch upon her, her dark eyes still held a lively glimmer—sharp, perceptive, as if some part of her remained untouched by time. Her lips curled into a warm, knowing smile, a practiced expression that suggested years spent putting others at ease.
Her hair, once thick and dark, had faded to deep silver, cascading in loose waves that framed her face. Strands of gray curled gently at the edges, escaping from where they had been tucked behind her ears. She wore a simple yet elegant dark red blouse, its black trim neatly stitched, a sign of her appreciation for fine craftsmanship. Around her neck rested a string of silver medallions, each one reflecting the soft glow of light from the window behind her.
Alex’s mind sharpened as he observed them both. He could feel it—the presence of tadpoles writhing in their heads. His gaze flickered to the man behind the counter. His psychic signature was shattered, reduced to a mere puppet of the Netherbrain. The woman, however, still resisted. He could sense her struggling against the control, a whisper of defiance amid the vast silence imposed upon her mind.
She straightened, offering them both a warm smile. "Ah, saer, you've chosen a special day to visit the family home of Archduke Enver Gortash. We're celebrating our dear son's magnificent achievement with a special run of leather-soled shoes."
Her voice was smooth, pleasant, but artificial—like an echo of a person who had long since been silenced.
Alex formed an invisible psionic barrier, severing their connection to the Netherbrain. Yet still, they smiled, unchanging. He focused, delving into the woman’s mind, searching for the truth beneath the compulsion.
'Help me!' Her voice screamed inside his head. 'Gods, help me! Enver’s ruined my mind. He’s taken my body!'
Her panic crashed against his consciousness like waves against the shore. 'I should have slammed the door in his face. But I let him in, and he rammed some kind of worm in our eyes. I’m here. But I can’t speak. I can’t act. I’m trapped!'
'Why did Gortash do this?' he asked, his voice gentle within the connection.
'He said he wanted to make us "powerless."' The words dripped with bitter regret. 'Still bitter after all these years. But we did what was best for him—for all of us. We had debts. World-ending debts, trying to keep this cursed shop afloat. Dangerous lenders who said they’d bury us all if we didn’t pay. Then a warlock offered us a pretty penny for Enver’s service. He was a smart boy—too smart. It was give him up—and all of us live—or refuse and die. What choice did we have?'
A sick weight settled in Alex’s gut. He already knew. He had seen the truth through Raphael’s memories. He had known what Gortash had endured to reach this point. Yet, hearing it from the woman’s own mind, feeling her grief and regret, he could tell—she did not mourn for her son. She mourned for herself, for being such a fool, for raising a monster. There was no sorrow for the child she had sold, only lamentation for what had become of her own life.
Sally and Dravo Flymm inherited Flymm's Cobblers from their family, raising Enver Gortash within the walls of their small Lower City store. From the moment he could speak, they found him difficult—demanding, strong-willed, too intelligent for his own good. Parenthood, instead of bringing them closer, became a wedge between them. It strained their already fragile relationship, nearly driving them apart.
Desperation marked their lives early. While Enver was still a child, Sally and Dravo spiraled into debt, struggling to keep their shop afloat. They borrowed from the Guild, the city's shadowy underworld, only to find themselves ensnared in an impossible bargain. When they could not repay their loans, the Guild came to collect—not in gold, but in blood. Death loomed over them like a specter, whispering of their inevitable end.
Then, like the devil in a storybook, Raphael appeared at their door. He posed as a mere warlock, his charm a thin veneer over something far darker. He did not demand their coin—he offered his own. In exchange for their son's service, he would pay them handsomely. He made the decision easy: sacrifice one, or lose everything. Sally and Dravo didn’t hesitate. They signed away their only child’s future for a handful of coin, securing their own lives at the cost of his.
And so, Enver was taken to the House of Hope, where he was placed under the cruel hand of Nubaldin, a sadistic overseer who despised him from the first moment. There was no kindness in that house, only lessons taught with fists and boots. The beatings were merciless, the bruises never fully healing before fresh wounds took their place. Rare were the days when he did not bleed.
Eventually, Enver escaped. He believed it was through his own wit, through sheer will and determination. But the truth was far more insidious—Raphael had let him go. The cambion had no need to keep him caged. The world itself would be his proving ground, and Raphael was certain that the suffering he had instilled would bear fruit. Chaos would follow in Enver’s wake. And Raphael had been right.
Alongside Tav, Enver Gortash did the impossible—he stole the Crown of Karsus from the vaults of Archdevil Mephistopheles, something Raphael himself had only dreamed of achieving. From there, he ascended, forging the Cult of the Absolute, seizing control of Baldur’s Gate, manipulating mortals like pawns on a board. The world had made him cruel, and he had learned to wield cruelty like a weapon.
Raphael was delighted. Gortash's rise brought chaos, and chaos brought contracts. Desperate souls, eager for power, for vengeance, for survival, turned to the devil in droves.
This—this was monstrous in a way that made his stomach churn.
"You had every choice. You sold your son to a devil in disguise. That’s unforgivable," Alex said, his voice like a blade honed to kill.
Sally didn’t flinch.
'We got good coin for him,' she said simply. 'Closed our debts. Kept our lives—Enver included.'
There was no regret in her voice, not a whisper of guilt. Just a woman who had made her choice and never looked back.
Alex’s fury burned, an inferno barely contained. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to rip her apart, to make her feel even a fraction of the suffering she had inflicted.
"Pieces of shit," he spat, his voice dripping with venom.
Amanita’s gaze flickered to him. She could see it—the tension in his shoulders, the barely restrained violence in his posture. The woman had struck something deep inside him, something raw and unhealed.
Through their psionic link, Alex had relayed everything to her. The words. The memories. The pain.
'You may disagree,' Sally continued, unaffected by his anger. "But we don’t deserve this—this torment. You’re the first person who’s heard the real me in months."
Her metal voice wavered, just slightly. A plea hidden beneath her otherwise cold exterior.
She was asking for help. To be freed from her prison. To be released from the torment Gortash had placed upon her.
Alex wondered—if mercy was even deserved.
"Why would I help you after what you did to your own son?" Alex asked, his voice cold and unwavering.
'My son! Same now as when he was a boy. Hateful little wretch. If you were me, you'd have sent him away too. Believe you me.'
Alex's gaze darkened. "Fine, I will release you." He stepped closer, his presence suddenly suffocating, his expression unreadable. "But first, you will suffer as your son did. You old bitch."
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An ethereal, infernal chain materialized in his hand, glowing with a malevolent crimson light. It slithered forward like a serpent, striking with unerring precision. The moment it wrapped around the old woman’s body, she crumpled to her knees, her breath hitching in a mixture of terror and agony.
A barrier shimmered into existence, isolating them from the outside world. Reality twisted around them, forming a pocket dimension—silent, unseen. No one would hear. No one would interrupt. What was about to happen would remain between them.
The chains ignited, searing through her flesh as an overwhelming tide of suffering flooded her body. Pain—pure, undiluted, and relentless—forced its way into her, a culmination of all the torment she had inflicted in her wretched life. Her screams echoed through the empty void, ragged and broken, her voice fracturing under the weight of her agony. Her nails clawed at the floor, her body convulsing as she begged for release, but no mercy came.
Alex stood still, watching her crumble, his face devoid of emotion. And then, silence. Her lifeless form lay sprawled on the floor, her body scorched with infernal burns. A faint, wispy essence rose from her corpse, her soul flickering weakly before it faded into oblivion—forgotten, unredeemed, unloved.
His head turned toward the old man behind the counter. The fool still wore a vacant smile, oblivious to what had just transpired.
Alex snapped his fingers.
The man fell, lifeless, crumpling to the ground like a discarded puppet.
Without another glance, Alex strode out of the shop, Amanita silently following at his side. The streets of the Lower City stretched before them, the distant chatter of merchants and early risers a stark contrast to the violence that had just unfolded. Yet, despite the city stirring to life, an unsettling weight lingered in the air.
After several moments of walking in silence, Amanita finally spoke, her voice soft with concern. "How are you feeling?"
Alex halted abruptly, exhaling deeply. He veered slightly off the path, stepping into the shadowed edge of an alleyway.
"All this suffering, all this death..." He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. "None of it would have happened if Gortash's parents had loved him more."
Amanita remained quiet, watching him carefully. She knew there was more.
"If they had just cared... if they had just been better... maybe he wouldn’t have become what he did. Maybe all those lives wouldn’t have been lost." His voice wavered for the first time, his anger fraying into something deeper. "And if my own parents had loved me... maybe millions wouldn’t have died because of me."
Amanita reached for him, her fingers lightly brushing against his arm. "Alex..."
He shook his head, inhaling sharply. "I don’t need sympathy. I just..." He trailed off, struggling to find the words.
Amanita didn't push. Instead, she took his hand in hers, grounding him in the present. "You can’t change the past. But you can still choose who you become. And right now, you’re here. You’re trying. That’s more than most ever do."
He closed his eyes for a brief moment before nodding. Together, they stepped back onto the path, heading towards the Elfsong Tavern. The city bustled around them, indifferent to their turmoil.
Alex and Amanita walked inside the room on the upper floor. The air was heavy with silence, the weight of the past few days pressing down on them like an invisible force.
Shadowheart was still asleep, her breathing steady as she peacefully sleep.
At the far end of the room, Astarion sat at the edge of a bed, his posture slouched, exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders hung low. Lae'zel stood beside him, arms crossed, her sharp gaze inspecting him as though searching for something—perhaps wounds, perhaps weakness, or perhaps the right words to say.
Gale was gone, likely having left with Jaheira and Minsc.
Alex briefly wondered where Glut and Lara were—lately, the two had been spending much of their time together. But that thought faded quickly as his gaze met Amanita's.
She gave him a small, encouraging smile. "Go and talk to him," she said, her voice soft yet firm.
Then, she turned towards a wide window where the sun spilled golden light into the dim space. She sat down by the sill, closing her eyes as she let the warmth wash over her. A pleased smile graced her lips—simple, genuine. It had been years since she had been able to bask in the sunlight without fear, and Alex let her enjoy that moment undisturbed.
His focus returned to Astarion and Lae'zel. He took slow steps toward them, his boots barely making a sound against the wooden floor. Astarion lifted his head slightly, crimson eyes meeting his, though they lacked their usual sharp wit. There was exhaustion there, yes—but also something else. Regret.
Lae'zel remained impassive, watching but saying nothing.
"I'm sorry for my outburst," Astarion said at last, his voice lacking its usual charm, raw and unguarded. His gaze drifted downward, toward his hands, fingers twitching slightly as if grasping at something just out of reach. "When I heard that the spawns were dead, it felt like the world came crashing down on me. I thought—" He inhaled sharply. "I thought I had a chance to fix my mistakes, to undo the damage I’ve done. But it seems the world has other plans for me. I just hope they found peace in the afterlife."
Alex took a measured breath before lowering himself to one knee in front of Astarion, ensuring that they met eye to eye. "It’s not your fault, Astarion," he said gently but firmly. "If someone is responsible for their deaths, it’s me."
A short, bitter chuckle escaped Astarion’s lips. "Alex, you are just like a hero from a child's tale," he mused, shaking his head. "When I first met you, I thought you were some cold-blooded assassin—or perhaps something worse. But who would have guessed that underneath all of that, you had such a big heart?"
He exhaled, his gaze steady now, searching Alex’s face for some sign of disagreement. But Alex remained silent, listening.
Astarion straightened slightly, his voice quieter this time. "Do not blame yourself for what happened. Some things are simply beyond even your power to change."
Alex let the silence settle between them before he spoke again. His voice was calm, yet filled with something deeper—something resolute.
"Astarion, I have a gift for you," Alex said, his words measured, deliberate.
Astarion let out a quiet, tired chuckle, though curiosity flickered in his crimson eyes. "How lovely," he murmured, tilting his head.
Alex didn’t return the jest. Instead, he met Astarion’s gaze, his expression unwavering. "But first, I need to ask you—do you wish to be turned back into a human, or do you want to finally become a full-blooded vampire?"
The humor drained from Astarion’s face. His smirk faltered, replaced by something heavier—something uncertain. He parted his lips, then hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly as he considered the weight of the question.
"If you had asked me this yesterday, I would have said I wanted to become a full vampire without hesitation," Astarion admitted, his voice quieter now, reflective. "But now..." He trailed off, his gaze unfocused, as though looking beyond the room, beyond the moment itself. "After activating the runes you inscribed on my bones, I felt so cold and detached, but so powerful. In a way, it felt... good. But it also felt like I wasn’t me anymore. If I become a vampire, how will I change? Will I still be me?"
Alex watched him carefully before answering, his voice steady. "You will be just as you are now, but the sun will no longer burn you. You will be stronger, your power will reach its full potential, and the hunger... it will no longer be a constant torment."
Astarion inhaled sharply, then exhaled, his shoulders easing. He thought about it for a long moment, his fingers grazing over his own wrist as if searching for something tangible in the decision. Then, finally, he met Alex’s eyes and gave a small, firm nod.
"Then do it."
Alex didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and placed his hand firmly over Astarion’s chest. A wave of crimson energy pulsed from his palm, seeping into Astarion’s body like liquid fire. Astarion shuddered as warmth spread through his limbs, unlike anything he had felt in centuries. It was deep, comforting, and whole—like stepping out of the darkness of a crypt and into the warmth of a hearth.
When the process was done, Astarion exhaled, a trembling breath escaping his lips. He lifted his hands, turning them over, inspecting them. His fingers curled and flexed, his skin felt the same—yet something in him had shifted. He snatched a mirror from a nearby table, angling it toward his face.
Nothing had changed outwardly. No new markings, no monstrous features—just the same pale, sharp elegance he had always possessed. And yet, he felt different. Younger, stronger, as though the weight of centuries had been lifted from him in an instant.
A slow, almost disbelieving smile spread across his lips.
His gaze swept the room before landing on Amanita, who stood by the window, bathed in the golden glow of morning light. Without thinking, he strode toward her, his pace quickening until he stood beside her, directly beneath the sun’s rays.
For a brief moment, he braced himself for the pain—the unbearable burning, the blinding agony. But it never came.
Instead, the sunlight touched his skin like a warm caress. Astarion lifted his head, closed his eyes, and let the golden light wash over him. A deep, shuddering breath left his lungs.
"Finally," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "No more headaches."
Amanita blinked at him, puzzled, her crimson eyes scanning him.
Behind them, Alex chuckled softly, the sound warm and knowing.
Astarion tilted his head back, a quiet, joyous laugh escaping his lips as he basked in the sunlight .
The group spent their time together, laughter filling the air as they exchanged jokes and shared stories, a well-earned moment of respite after all they had endured. The tension that had weighed so heavily on them was finally easing, giving way to the kind of camaraderie forged only through fire and hardship.
At some point, Shadowheart had woken up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and quietly joined the group. She settled beside Alex, wrapping her arms around his as they conversed, resting her head lightly against his shoulder. To his other side, Amanita stood close, her presence warm and comforting. There was an unspoken understanding between the three of them, an ease that had developed through battles fought together and burdens shared.
Shadowheart lifted her head slightly, her gaze flickering toward Amanita before settling back on Alex. She hesitated for a moment, chewing her lower lip, before finally speaking.
"Alex, Amanita... Can we talk about something, in private?" Her voice was softer than usual, uncertain.
Astarion, lounging nearby with a glass of wine in hand, smirked knowingly. His crimson eyes twinkled with amusement as if he already had an idea of where this conversation was heading.
"Oh, my dear Shadowheart," Astarion drawled, swirling his drink lazily. "Tell me, is it still considered a harem if it's just two women? Or do we need to recruit more for it to be official?"
Shadowheart's face turned red faster than a wildfire consuming dry brush. Her grip on Alex's arm tightened for a moment before she abruptly stood up, her expression flustered beyond words. Amanita, standing beside Alex, let out a small, knowing chuckle, though her own cheeks had colored slightly at Astarion’s teasing remark.
"You are insufferable!" Shadowheart snapped at Astarion, though the embarrassment in her voice lessened the bite of her words. Without another word, she grabbed Alex’s wrist and started dragging him away, her pace brisk and determined. Amanita followed with a bemused expression, trailing after them as Astarion chuckled to himself.
"Don't be shy! Just be sure to invite me to the wedding!" Astarion called after them, his laughter echoing through the room.
Shadowheart’s pace quickened. Amanita, suppressing a grin, leaned toward Alex as they followed behind.
"Well, this should be an interesting conversation," she murmured, amusement lacing her voice.
Alex could only sigh, letting himself be led away, wondering exactly what he had just gotten himself into.