Alex and his companions approached the entrance to Fraygo’s Flophouse, the last refuge for the desperate and destitute. The sun had long dipped beneath the horizon, leaving the city cloaked in shades of deep orange and purple, but the streets were far from empty. Stalls still clattered as merchants stubbornly hawked their wares to stragglers, while figures cloaked in shadow moved between pools of lantern light. Alex’s sharp gaze flickered toward the gate down the road, where the massive bridge was raised, a silent testament to the Flaming Fist’s control over this part of the city. Their guards loomed like statues—stern, unflinching—and the Steel Watchers stood even taller, their mechanical bodies gleaming faintly under the flickering light.
Beyond them stretched a towering wall, adorned with banners bearing the Flaming Fist symbol—a blood-red hand, stark and oppressive against the gray stone. Alex tore his gaze away and turned to the door of the flophouse before him.
To the side of the door, two figures argued with the kind of sharp-edged frustration born of weariness. A half-orc man—broad-shouldered but slouching with defeat—and a tiefling woman with fiery red horns peeking through her dirt-matted hair stood locked in a bitter exchange.
“No. I’d rather freeze in the gutter than step one foot into this dump,” the tiefling woman snapped, her voice a sharp hiss. Her tail flicked behind her, a visible measure of her agitation.
The half-orc shook his head, his broad brow furrowed. “We’ve got no better choice.” His voice was low and rough, each word carrying the weight of defeat.
She snorted and spat to the side. “Better to sleep with the rats outside than with the rats in there,” she muttered, shooting the flophouse door a venomous glare.
Alex silently stepped past the pair, his boots scuffing against the ground. As he pushed the door open, the low creak of rusted hinges sounded like the groan of a dying beast. The smell hit him first—a stale mix of mildew, unwashed bodies, and something sour that clung to the back of his throat. Lae’zel, following close behind, wrinkled her nose in disgust and muttered, “I have seen dragon kennels cleaner than this.” Her voice dripped with contempt, her sharp eyes narrowing as she scanned the interior.
Inside, the state of the place became painfully clear. The floorboards creaked underfoot, grimy with dirt and dotted with scraps of cloth and crumpled papers. The walls, once a pale beige, were now stained with brown streaks and smudges. The air itself felt heavy, as if the years of neglect and misery had soaked into the very wood.
To their right, a wooden table sagged beneath the weight of its own age. Around it sat Lump, Glut, Halsin, and Lara, their voices low as they spoke in casual conversation. They didn’t so much as glance up at Alex and his companions—a testament to their obedience to Alex’s earlier instructions. He nodded to himself in approval before striding toward the counter.
There, a halfling man slumped against the wooden counter, his posture loose and disinterested. His lips moved faintly, muttering to himself as though lost in some private daydream. His vacant gaze stared straight ahead, unfocused and hollow.
Alex stopped at the counter, the thud of his boots snapping the halfling out of his trance. The man blinked sluggishly and spoke before his mind caught up with his tongue.
“Sir, good, sir, give me three day—” He froze midsentence, his vacant expression shifting to awkward awareness as he stammered, “Oh, erm—apologies. Thought you were someone else. Greetings, so forth, and so on.” His voice was flat and mechanical, as though he’d uttered the phrase thousands of times before.
Alex raised an eyebrow but didn’t press the issue. “How much would it cost for seven people, for one night?” he asked calmly.
Beside him, Astarion perked up, a wide grin breaking across his face. “Finally,” he said, practically sighing with exaggerated relief. “I’m getting to sleep in an actual bed. How novel!”
The halfling gave Astarion a blank look before answering, “You’re lucky. We’re nearly full. Six gold pieces should do.”
Alex reached into the folds of his clothes, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of the coins. With a quiet clink, he placed the gold on the counter. The halfling scooped the coins up in one smooth motion, pocketing them without a word.
“The beds in the attic are the only ones available,” he said dully. “Take the stairs, then climb the ladder.”
Alex gave a brief nod before turning on his heel. “Come on,” he murmured to the group. Together, they made their way toward the splintered staircase at the far end of the room, their footsteps echoing on the warped wooden floor.
As they climbed, the air grew staler, the smell of mildew thickening with each step. The stairs groaned under their weight, as though threatening to give way.
The moment the party reached the upper floor, Alex’s sharp gaze darted toward the figures standing to their left. The dim light of an old, swaying lantern barely illuminated the pair, casting fractured shadows across the worn wooden walls. A man and a woman.
The man, with his golden waves of hair framing a noble visage, had the elegance of someone who belonged in a grand ballroom rather than this rotting flophouse. His leather doublet, richly embroidered with golden vines, was pristine—a stark contrast to the grime-streaked walls around him. His expression was stony, his jaw clenched, as if carved from marble. Next to him, the elven woman’s pale skin glistened like alabaster in the low light, her silver hair falling in a blunt cut that softened her otherwise sharp, angular features.
Alex stopped, the realization striking him —they were undead. Neither of them had the telltale heartbeat of the living. His glance flickered toward Astarion. The vampire spawn’s eyes were locked onto the pair, his lips pulling back slightly, fangs just visible. His right hand hovered above the hilt of his dagger, fingers twitching with predatory instinct.
"We should go. I do not want to face the Master if we’re late for his Black Mass," the woman said, her voice trembling as though the mere mention of the ritual scraped against her soul.
"Soon, sister," the man replied, calm but ravenous. His eyes glinted unnervingly, as though lit from within by a hunger that no mortal food could satisfy. "I only need one more mark."
The woman turned to him, frustration pulling taut across her features. "We have enough for the Master—no more are needed!"
The man shook his head, his face twisting into something almost rapturous. “It’s not for the Master. It’s for me.” He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as though already tasting something savory. His hands spread wide, gesturing as if to seize a vision no one else could see. "I spent one hundred years eating rats and dogs, sister. But soon… soon I’ll feast. Once the Mass is done and our lord grants us our freedom, I’ll celebrate by drinking them dry."
Alex’s instincts bristled. 'These two , they’re spawns. Just like Astarion.'
Before Alex could step forward, Astarion moved past him. His steps were soundless, predatory, but there was a cold focus in his posture. His eyes narrowed, his voice sharp and cutting as glass.
“Cazador promised you your freedom? And you believed him?” Venom oozed from every word, each syllable deliberate.
The two spawns stiffened, their gazes darting between each other in sudden confusion. Though their eyes searched Astarion, the illusion cloaking him held; they could not yet see who he truly was.
“You were never burdened with intelligence, Petras.” Astarion’s tone was silk and steel, his smile a dagger without a sheath. “But your load seems especially light these days.”
Petras snarled faintly, his fangs glinting as his temper began to fray.
“Excuse us, but who are you?” the woman—Dal—asked, her voice wary.
Alex stepped forward and with a flick of his wrist dismissed the illusion, the magic dissolving like mist to reveal Astarion . His pale skin, sharper features, and unmistakable crimson gaze were revealed like a predator uncloaked in moonlight.
Dal’s eyes widened, disbelief cracking through her voice as she stumbled back, her hands trembling. “Astarion? It—it cannot be…”
Astarion tilted his head, his sharp smile never wavering. “That’s no way to welcome back a brother, Dal. Didn’t you miss me?” His tone was mocking, his words laced with bitterness so tangible it might as well have been poison.
“Why would you come back?” Dal whispered, her voice hushed with a mix of fear and awe. “You got out. You were free.”
Before she could say more, Petras stepped forward, the arrogant sneer plastered on his face betraying his own simmering envy. “Isn’t it obvious, sister? He wants to ascend with the rest of us. He heard about the ritual and the power our master will grant us, so he came back with his tail between his legs, hoping all would be forgiven.”
Astarion sighed—a long, exasperated sound—as though enduring the drivel of a particularly dense child. “You always were an idiot, Petras.”
Before anyone could react, Astarion moved, faster than the human eye could track. His arm shimmered with psionic energy, purple light crawling up his veins and solidifying into an armored gauntlet. He seized Petras by the throat, lifting him effortlessly into the air as though the man were nothing more than a doll stuffed with rags.
Petras’s feet dangled helplessly, his hands clawing at Astarion’s gauntleted grip. Though vampire spawns didn’t need to breathe, his body instinctively struggled, his fangs bared in silent desperation. Astarion’s grip only tightened, his crimson eyes ablaze with wrath.
“Where is he hiding?” Astarion hissed through gritted teeth, the sound more like the growl of a wolf than the voice of a man. “Tell me!”
Petras choked, his legs kicking wildly as his neck strained under the crushing pressure. Dal panicked, rushing forward to claw at Astarion’s arm, but it was like trying to pry open stone. The psionic armor pulsed withenergy, impervious to her desperate efforts.
“No!” Dal cried, her voice breaking as she yanked fruitlessly at Astarion. “Brother, please!”
For a moment, Astarion didn’t respond, his expression fixed in cold, unrelenting fury. The purple glow of his armor intensified, crawling up his arm like cracks in glass. The sound of Petras’s flailing grew weaker, his movements jerky and panicked. Astarion was ready—more than ready—to rip his head clean off.
That’s when Alex stepped forward. Quiet, calm, unshaken. He placed a steady hand on Astarion’s arm.
The contact was enough. Astarion froze, his crimson gaze flicking sharply toward Alex. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the tension in Astarion’s body cracked, like ice fracturing under heat. He exhaled through his nose, his grip loosening just enough to drop Petras unceremoniously to the ground.
“Fine,” Astarion muttered darkly, brushing Alex’s hand away.
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Petras fell to his knees, coughing as though his body still remembered how to breathe.
Astarion stood over him, his form imposing, his armor still glowing faintly with psionic energy. He didn’t so much as flinch as Dal scrambled to her brother’s side.
“You owe your wretched life to my friend,” Astarion said, his voice low and cold as death itself. “Now tell me what I need to know.”
Dal looked up, her eyes rimmed with tears, her face pale with fear. “The Master is preparing the Black Mass,” she confessed, her voice trembling. “Beneath his palace. There’s a defiled chapel—it’s been hidden there the entire time. Hidden from us all.” She paused, her eyes pleading. “Do you really think you can stop him?”
Astarion’s gaze burned, his lips pulling into a grim, sharp smile. “I’m the only one who can.”
Before anyone could respond, Karlach let out a loud, unexpected gagging sound. Everyone turned to stare at her.
“Sorry, sorry!” she said quickly, waving her hands as she forced herself to straighten up. “Sure, Astarion, you’re the only one who can kill him. Yep. ”
Astarion rolled his eyes, flexing his gauntleted hand. The psionic armor shimmered one last time before fading, leaving behind only faint traces of its light in the air. “The sun can’t harm me. Cazador can’t compel me. I don’t need to fear him anymore.”
Alex raised his hand swiftly, dark energy pulsing at his fingertips. From his outstretched palm erupted a pair of ethereal necrotic chains—like serpents conjured from the void. They lashed out through the air, snaking around Petras and Dal with an unnatural hunger. The spawns’ struggles were immediate and furious, but the chains only tightened, pulling them taut .
“What is the meaning of this?!” Petras snarled, fangs bared as he thrashed against the necrotic bonds. His voice dripped with desperation, more wounded pride than fear.
Shadowheart stepped forward, her arms crossed, her expression hard as flint. “Do you think we’re foolish enough to let you go? Especially after finding out that Astarion is in Baldur’s Gate?” Her words cut through the air like daggers, sharp and unforgiving.
Dal’s gaze darted from her brother to Alex, her voice cracking under the weight of dread. “Are… are you going to kill us?”
Alex’s answer came swift, steady, and unshaken. “No.” The certainty in his tone gave the spawns pause, though the chains still twisted around them like hungry vines. “Not if you cooperate.”
Karlach scoffed from where she stood nearby, her arms folded and her gaze skeptical. “I really don’t think that’ll work, mate. I mean, Astarion nearly ripped this guy’s neck off, and he didn’t say a damn word.”
Alex didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his hands began to glow—a sickly necrotic light pulsing from his palms like the heartbeat of something long dead. A miasma, dark and swirling, seeped from his fingers and spread toward the captive spawns. It moved like an oil spill through the air, slow, deliberate, and unstoppable.
The moment the miasma touched them, Petras and Dal screamed—not in pain of the flesh, but something deeper. Their bodies convulsed, thrashing harder as though trying to escape from their own skin. Their eyes rolled back, white and sightless, their limbs jerking violently as if pulled by invisible strings.
“What… what did you do to them?” Gale asked, his curiosity tinged with alarm. Tara, cradled in his arms, let out a low hiss as though sensing something unnatural in the air.
Alex lowered his hands as the miasma faded, the glow dying from his fingertips like embers being snuffed out. The spawns slumped in the chains, motionless, their breathing shallow but steady. “I severed their connection to Cazador,” Alex explained, his voice calm, though his expression was grim.
Astarion’s eyes widened in shock, crimson gaze locking onto Alex like a hawk. “You can do that?!” His voice held disbelief, almost accusation. “Why in the hells didn’t you do it to me until now?”
Alex turned to him, his expression unreadable. “Your psionic power is strong enough to stop Cazador from taking control over you. You don’t need this.” He glanced back at the unconscious spawns. “Besides, this method leaves vampires weakened for weeks—sometimes months.”
Astarion blinked, realization dawning like a cold light across his sharp features. “Ah,” he murmured softly, his tone almost contrite. “Well, I suppose that’s… reasonable.”
Shadowheart crouched next to Petras, nudging his face with her finger. The man’s head lolled to the side like a ragdoll. “When will they wake up?” she asked, glancing up at Alex.
“In a few hours,” Alex replied, brushing his hands off as if clearing away lingering darkness. “But until then, we’ve got other things to deal with.” His gaze turned to Lae’zel, who stood silently nearby, her eyes narrowed in sharp focus. “Now that we’ve secured a place to rest for the night, I think it’s time we met with Voss.”
He sent a brief telepathic message to Glut, informing he would them in the morning, somewhere in the Lower City. Glut offered only the mental equivalent of a nod.
The Caress stood just across from Fraygo’s Flophouse, and the stark contrast between the two buildings was jarring. While the Flophouse sagged like an old, rotting tooth, Sharess’ Caress glowed with opulent warmth. Inside, the scent of fresh flowers and perfumed oils hung heavy in the air, sweet and intoxicating.
The red carpet underfoot muffled their steps as they entered. Golden candlelight flickered from ornate lamps and candelabras, casting rich pools of light across polished wood and silk drapery. On either side of the room, plush booths lined the walls, occupied by languid figures sipping wine or laughing softly. Women, draped in gossamer summer dresses that clung to them like mist, glided between tables like spirits in a dream.
Shadowheart’s hand suddenly intertwined with Alex’s, her grip firm. “Don’t you dare look at those wenches,” she warned, her voice low but full of heat.
Alex smirked, eyes gleaming mischievously. “Too late. I could paint a portrait of them already.”
Shadowheart arched a brow, a teasing lilt in her tone. “If you know how to paint, perhaps you should make one of me instead.”
“Get me the supplies, and I just might,” Alex shot back, leading the group toward the counter where a woman already awaited them.
Amira, the proprietor of Sharess’ Caress, was beauty personified. Her golden hair shimmered in the candlelight, cascading around her shoulders in soft waves. Blue eyes, sharp as ice and equally cold, locked onto Alex the moment he approached. She wore a deep red dress embroidered with golden vines, its splits on either side revealing legs that seemed sculpted for admiration. A silvery tiara crowned her head, inset with dark blue gems that caught the light like stars.
Before Alex could speak, Amira smiled—a slow, serpentine thing. “Elegant, decadent, and oh so dangerous,” she purred, her voice smooth as velvet. “I know your bliss.” Her gaze swept over Alex like a predator taking stock of prey. “A sturdy dwarf. Leather whip. She gives—you receive. Or have I misjudged you?”
Alex’s brow furrowed. “You’re way off, I’m afraid.”
“Am I?” Amira pressed, her smile widening. “Your eyes tell a story, sweeting. You crave more than pleasure—you crave penance. It’s Ffion you seek, isn’t it? Our Stern Librarian. Alas, she isn’t here today. Your penance must wait. But we’ve other ways to fill your void. A drink, for one. A pair of drow, for another. Choose your sin.”
Alex’s tone turned sharp, cutting through her honeyed words. “I found Ffion’s corpse. She’s been murdered.”
Amira stilled, though the sorrow that flickered across her face was as practiced as the rest of her charms. “Murdered?” she echoed softly. “Ye gods, the poor thing. By the Mother of Cats, I pray she didn’t suffer.” She sighed, a touch dramatically. “Losing Ffion slashed a big hole in my coin purse. I should get to replacing her.”
Alex had already turned to leave when she added, “Talk with the drow twins in the taproom. They’re legends among the regulars—almost myths. Tell them they’re your gift from the Mamzell, and let them show you why.”
Her words were bait. Alex knew it. She wasn’t offering him a reward; she was trying to sell him an experience, to earn him as a customer. He shrugged. “Maybe,” he muttered, already walking away.
As the group climbed the stairs to the upper floor, the air thickened with the heavy scent of wine and sweat. Valeria was slumped at a table to the left, cups emptied before her in a disorganized row. She swayed slightly, muttering to herself, the overwhelming stench of alcohol emanating from her like a cloud.
Alex barely paid her any attention. Something else tugged at his mind—a presence. Subtle, but unmistakable. A mind, sharp and alien, hummed faintly at the edge of his awareness.
Someone here carried a tadpole.
Alex guided them silently up the narrow staircase to the topmost floor. The group moved with quiet tension since Alex told what he had sensed . When Alex pushed open the last door, a balcony stretched before them, its view overlooking the bustling streets below. The night air was sharp and damp, carrying the faint hum of city life.
A room loomed ahead, its ornate door slightly ajar, and two more doors stood to the right. Alex’s senses prickled, his psionic radar pinging faintly—an intrusive hum at the edge of his mind, familiar and unwelcome. Without hesitation, he turned to the door on the left and pushed it open.
The room before them dripped with decadence. It was vast and opulent, almost too much for the eye to take in—marble statues perched along the walls like silent sentinels, vines threaded with glowing flowers creeping over the stone like nature reclaiming its space. At the far end, an oversized, steaming bath sat like a pool of liquid silver. The humid air smelled sweet, a sickly mix of lavender and spice that clung to the lungs.
But it was the scene on the right that caught Alex’s attention.
Two women stood in an intimate embrace by a gilded vanity—bare skin glowing in the soft light. One was a wood elf, her hair a cascade of copper, eyes half-lidded as if lost in a dream. The other was human, her dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders. The women were locked in each other’s arms, their posture sensual yet unnaturally still, like porcelain dolls mid-motion.
The human woman turned her head suddenly, and her gaze met Alex’s.
Her nose began to bleed.
Alex froze as her expression darkened, her eyes dilating to nothing but pools of black. Psionic energy began to gather around her, rolling off her like waves of heat before a wildfire. The connection between them flared like a live wire—raw, crackling, and full of malevolent intent.
He didn’t wait.
Alex moved with impossible speed, his psionic power flaring to life, accelerating his body to a blur. The room seemed to slow around him, every particle of air trembling under his sheer force. He shot toward the infected woman like an arrow loosed from a bow. But just before his outstretched hand could make contact, an invisible force hit him.
It was as if a titan’s fist had struck him square in the chest.
The impact shattered the air with a concussive boom, sending Alex flying backward like a ragdoll. He crashed through the room’s far wall in a splintering explosion of wood and plaster, shards slicing at his skin as he sailed into open air. Below him, the dark ribbon of the river gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The wind howled past his ears, his body freefalling.
But he wasn’t done yet.
The space around him warped, bending like rippling glass as he gathered his psionic energy mid-fall. With a sharp pull, Alex teleported back into the room, landing in a crouch amidst the wreckage of the shattered wall. Dust billowed around him, his breaths ragged.
The ground trembled beneath his boots, and this time, the shaking didn’t stop—it grew stronger, deeper, as though the foundations of the building itself rebelled against what was happening.
Alex’s gaze snapped back to the human woman.
Or what had been her.
She was changing.
Her flesh rippled and contorted, a grotesque metamorphosis unfolding before his eyes. Skin melted into a smooth, sickly gray surface, limbs elongated and twisted unnaturally. Her mouth split open, rows of alien teeth pushing through, and from her back erupted thin, writhing tendrils. Moments later, where a woman once stood, now hovered a mind flayer.
But something was wrong.
The mind flayer’s power was unnatural, amplified at least tenfold. Alex could feel the connection to the elder brain pulsating in the air, thick and oppressive, like invisible chains binding the creature’s essence to something far greater. It wasn’t just strong—it was being boosted.
His friends didn’t stand a chance.
Lae’zel was on her knees, clutching her head, her expression twisted with pain. Shadowheart lay sprawled, hands pressed to her temples, as though trying to hold her mind together. Gale , Wyll and Karlach writhed helplessly, groaning as the pressure in the room mounted. Even Astarion, staggered on trembling legs, his sharp teeth gritted, his posture wavering like a flame in the wind.
The rings Alex had given them—crafted to resist psionic influence—were useless. The sheer weight of the energy in the room overwhelmed them, crashing into their minds like a tidal wave.
The mind flayer raised one gnarled hand. A dark orb—small, yet impossibly dense—appeared in its palm, vibrating violently as it grew. The space around it distorted, bending the very light, warping reality itself. Alex knew what it was. A singularity. A psionic bomb.
If it finished forming, everything around would be obliterated.
Alex acted .
Shadows within the room twisted at his command, shooting like blackened spears toward the mind flayer.
They struck the creature, but the air rippled—a barrier. The psionic shield around it flared brilliantly, the shadows dissolving into nothingness before they even made contact.
The orb rose from the mind flayer’s hand, crackling as if alive.
Alex knew he couldn’t absorb its energy. The power was unstable—one wrong move would trigger a premature detonation.
His body began to glow, brilliant and otherworldly, psionic light flaring from within him like a star being born. Alex raised his hand, fingers trembling as he focused all his energy into a single point. His body burned—every nerve screaming—but he pushed through it. He had to.
He angled his arm carefully, ensuring the force wouldn’t hit the wood elf woman still crumpled in the corner.
And then, he unleashed.
A beam of raw psionic power erupted from his palm—white-hot and furious. It tore through the air with a sound like thunder splitting the heavens, obliterating everything in its path. A quarter of the room simply ceased to exist, the debris blown upward in a whirlwind of splintered wood and stone. The force carried the mind flayer and its orb skyward, launching them high into the night.
The dark orb detonated.
For a split second, the sky above them turned black, darker than the void itself. A vortex spiraled outward, like a miniature black hole ripping at the very fabric of reality. The air screamed, the city below shuddered, and for a moment, it felt as though the world itself might collapse.
Alex didn’t wait.
Summoning his power, he bent reality once more. The space around them blurred and snapped.