Alex and his friends materialized under the massive bridge of Wyrm's Crossing, the sudden quiet of their new surroundings a stark contrast to the chaos they had barely escaped. The night hung thick and heavy, the stars shimmering faintly above while the river lapped gently against the shore.
Astarion broke the silence first, his frustration cutting through the air like a knife.
“What the hells just happened? We almost died,” he snapped, clutching his throbbing head. His crimson eyes flashed with annoyance as he shifted his weight to sit upright.
Alex stood silently for a moment, his gaze sweeping over his friends sprawled across the sand. Karlach was lying flat on her back, her chest heaving as she struggled to steady her breathing. Shadowheart was curled up, her hands pressed to her temples, the strain of the psionic attack still lingering. Gale with Tara in his arms and Wyll groaned softly, muttering something under their breaths, while Lae’zel sat cross-legged, her fists pressed against her thighs as though steeling herself against invisible pain.
“That mind flayer’s power… it was boosted by the elder brain,” Alex said finally, his voice calm but edged with weariness. “That’s why none of you could stand against it.”
Astarion clicked his tongue, turning his head to the side with a sharp huff. “And yet you managed,” he muttered bitterly, though his usual wit felt half-hearted.
Alex ignored the jab and raised his hand. Psionic energy shimmered around him like heatwaves, and in an instant, the group disappeared again.
This time, they reappeared inside the damp, shadowy cave beneath the Open Hand Temple.
Torches flickered against the rough stone walls, their golden light dancing across weary faces.
Without delay, Alex got to work. He summoned a soft, ethereal glow that enveloped his friends as he moved from one to the next, his hands glowing as he focused on healing their wounds. Karlach’s tremors slowly faded; Gale’s pained expression relaxed; Shadowheart let out a shaky breath as her hands dropped to her sides.
Once everyone was back on their feet, Alex stood before them, his posture rigid as guilt weighed heavy on his shoulders. The soft glow of the torches cast sharp shadows across his face.
“Everything that happened… it was my fault,” he said quietly, his voice low but resolute. “The moment we set foot in that room, the infected woman attacked my mind with her tadpole. I resisted, but I retaliated—too hard. That must have alerted the elder brain, which triggered her transformation into a mind flayer.”
Silence followed his confession, the weight of his words settling like stones in their chests.
Karlach was the first to move. She stepped forward, her heavy boots echoing faintly, and placed a comforting hand on Alex’s shoulder. Her expression was soft—understanding, yet unwavering.
“You didn’t know that would happen,” she said gently. “Besides, no one was killed.” She hesitated for just a moment, her voice dropping to a quieter tone. “Hopefully.”
Shadowheart was next. Without a word, she moved to stand beside him and wrapped her arms around his waist. The embrace was warm, tender—a silent offering of comfort. Alex let out a slow breath and placed his hand gently on hers, but the storm raging behind his eyes didn’t abate.
“I sent some of my minions to investigate the source of the earthquakes a few hours ago,” Alex said, his voice low and strained. “And they found it—the elder brain.”
Astarion’s head snapped up, a dry laugh escaping him. “Great. So you just go there and kill it,” he said flippantly, though his tone carried little confidence.
Alex’s jaw clenched, frustration bleeding into his words. “I can’t.”
The entire group turned to him, confusion etched on their faces. Lae’zel stepped forward, her yellow eyes narrowing.
“You have fought the elder brain before and dominated it,” she said, her voice sharp and pointed. “What stops you now from doing the same?”
Alex turned to face her, his shoulders tense. “It’s not the same elder brain,” he said, his tone heavy with unease. “It’s mutated. Somehow, it’s become stronger—extremely strong.”
Gale’s face darkened at the words, his expression thoughtful but grave. “It must be siphoning power from the Crown of Karsus,” he said softly. “That’s… deeply troubling.”
Gale paused for a moment before continuing. “It’s an artifact of unimaginable power. It once held enough strength to kill Mystra herself and make Karsus a god. If the elder brain is drawing on it…” He trailed off, his gaze distant as though already imagining the destruction it could unleash. “Who knows what it could become?”
Lae’zel stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension. “We must meet with Orpheus. He will know what to do.”
Before anyone could respond, Shadowheart let out a small gasp. Her hand flew to her satchel, which began to vibrate violently. A brilliant light burst forth as the Astral Prism emerged, hovering midair in front of them.
The prism spun gently, casting beams of silver light across the cavern walls. Then a voice echoed from within.
“I, too, am puzzled by the situation we find ourselves in,” Orpheus said, his tone calm but laced with uncertainty. “I have slain more ghaik and their masters than I can count, but what we witnessed today… I have never encountered before.”
“So what?” Karlach said, her frustration flaring. “We just let that floating brain do whatever it wants?”
“For the moment, yes,” Orpheus replied, his voice steady but tinged with regret. “At least until I have fully recovered my strength. "
He paused for a few moments.
"I apologize—I retracted the protective aura I had placed around you in my haste to regain power. It seems that decision was… unwise.”
As his words faded, the Astral Prism began to spin faster. Its glow grew brighter, becoming a blurred sphere of light. Suddenly, a red barrier burst forth from it, spreading outward to encompass the entire party.
The aura lingered for a moment, shimmering faintly, before fading into invisibility. A soft hum filled the air, soothing and gentle. The party stood still, their minds suddenly calmer.
Alex let out a slow breath, his shoulders finally loosening.
The Astral Prism hovered for another heartbeat before drifting back into Shadowheart’s satchel, where it settled quietly and became still.
A heavy silence fell over the cave once more, broken only by the soft crackle of torches.
"Ansur should be capable of taking down the elder brain . " Wyll muttered under his breath.
The atmosphere in the cave turned dense as Wyll’s words hung in the air, the faint echo of the mighty Ansur lingering like a ghost. The copper dragon, Heart of the Gate—a legend. A name whispered with reverence.
Alex's face fell, his expression hardening, the weight of grim knowledge casting a shadow over his features.
“Ansur is dead,” he said quietly, the words carrying the finality of a coffin nail. “And has been for centuries ,killed by Balduran.”
Wyll’s head snapped toward Alex, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What?” His voice cracked, his throat suddenly dry as though dust had filled his mouth.
He stared at Alex, trying to process what he had just heard, but the meaning refused to settle. “But—Balduran? Balduran killed him?”
Alex nodded.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Wyll’s shoulders sagged as the words struck him like physical blows. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath, his world cracking piece by piece. Balduran, the hero of legends, the man Wyll had idolized since childhood—the shining beacon of what a hero could be—Wyll's admiration for him finally completely shattered.
Wyll’s whisper echoed through the cave like a ghost. “Why would he do that?” His voice trembled, each word pulled from a place of raw disbelief. His lips quivered, and his chest rose and fell unsteadily as if the air itself had become too heavy to breathe.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the distant dripping of water from unseen stalactites. Alex’s gaze softened, the burden of truth weighing heavily on his shoulders as he searched for the right words.
“After Balduran had been transformed into a mind flayer,” Alex began, his tone steady but solemn, “Ansur was the one who saved him. He freed Balduran from the elder brain’s influence, risking everything to pull him back from the brink. It wasn’t a battle Ansur took lightly—he called upon every healer, every sage, every fragment of hope that remained to cure Balduran of his affliction. But Balduran… refused.”
“Refused?” Shadowheart whispered incredulously, as though the thought itself was incomprehensible.
Alex met their shocked gazes, his own full of quiet pain. “Balduran believed the transformation was a boon, not a curse. He thought his new form had given him a strength greater than any mortal man could wield. To him, being a mind flayer wasn’t something to be cured, but something to embrace.”
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The words sank in like stones thrown into deep water, rippling outward. Wyll turned away, his hand pressing to his forehead as he tried to reconcile the truth with the hero he had worshiped for so long. “No…” he whispered, but there was no denying what he had heard.
Alex’s voice dropped lower now, a quiet, sorrowful cadence. “As a last resort, when all hope had been exhausted, Ansur made a choice—a desperate, heartbreaking choice. He waited until Balduran was asleep, his defenses lowered, and he tried to end him.”
The silence was electric. Wyll turned back sharply, his face twisted with anguish and disbelief.
Alex's expression turn grave. “Ansur believed it was an act of mercy. To save the man Balduran had once been and spare him the torment of living as a monster. He took the burden onto himself, knowing the risk, knowing the price. But…” Alex exhaled slowly, his voice tinged with sorrow. “Balduran awoke. He defended himself. In an act of self-preservation and struck Ansur down.”
The weight of the words seemed to press upon everyone’s chest. Wyll staggered slightly, his hand reaching for Karlach’s arm, as if grounding himself to something real. “No… no…” Wyll repeated, his voice choked with grief.
Alex’s gaze fell to the ground, as though he could no longer bear to meet their eyes. “Balduran took up his giantslayer greatsword,” Alex continued, his tone steady but broken by the edges of sadness, “and he struck Ansur down. The dragon who had saved him, who had fought to restore him, his best friend , fell to Balduran’s blade. Ansur’s remains were left within the Dragon’s Sanctum—hidden deep beneath Wyrm’s Rock isle.”
No one spoke. The silence grew thick and oppressive, the cavern air heavy with grief and disbelief. Karlach, usually a beacon of energy, pressed a hand over her heart and closed her eyes. Shadowheart turned away, her arms crossed tightly against herself as if trying to shield her emotions from the others. Even Lae’zel, hardened and unmoved by most things, clenched her fists tightly at her sides, her lips set in a thin, grim line.
Wyll’s face, however, was the most broken of all. The light in his eyes dimmed as he processed the betrayal of the man he had looked up to his entire life. Balduran—his hero, the legend of Baldur’s Gate—had not only fallen to corruption but had turned against the one who tried to save him.
Karlach, sensing Wyll’s crumbling resolve, stepped closer. Without a word, she pulled him into another embrace, her arms wrapping tightly around him as though trying to hold him together.
The cave seemed colder. Wyll lowered his head, his fingers curling into tight fists as the truth sank in, a deep wound that no magic could heal. The memories of standing on Wyrm’s Rock alongside his father flooded back—his mind piecing together the forgotten truth beneath his very feet. He had walked on the grave of a dragon whose fire once protected the city he loved.
Wyll swallowed hard , but the shattered look in his eyes remained.
“But,” Alex interjected, his tone cutting through the weight of grief, “there’s still hope.”
Wyll looked up, his gaze filled with a thousand silent questions.
“Ansur’s flame has not been completely extinguished,” Alex said. “Balduran may have struck him down, but something lingers. A spark, buried deep.”
“How do you know this?” Wyll asked, his voice low and unsteady.
Alex’s expression darkened. “Because I’ve seen it trough Bladuran's memories . He was aware that his friend soul had not departed , but the last remnants of his humanity didn't allowed him to extinguish the fain spark ”
Wyll’s eyes shifted to the ground, his mind racing. The weight of it all—his idol’s betrayal, the truth buried beneath the fortress—threatened to crush him. And yet, when he looked back at Alex, his expression was steadier than before. Determined.
“What’s the plan?” Wyll asked, his voice hardening. Whatever it took, whatever the cost, he would help save the city.
Before Alex could answer, a sound—soft but deliberate—echoed from the darkness. The faint shuffle of footsteps. Every member of the group turned sharply, hands drifting instinctively to their weapons. From the shadows emerged two figures, stepping into the flickering torchlight.
The first was Raphael, the charming devil whose silver tongue and smug demeanor could enrage even the most stoic. His perfectly tailored clothes gleamed under the dim light, his sharp grin as polished as ever. He looked directly at Alex, his eyes dancing with amusement.
The second figure was Kith’rak Voss, the hardened githyanki knight. Unlike Raphael, Voss’s presence was one of stoic authority. His armor bore deep scratches and dents. A deep diagonal scar marred his left cheek, and part of his ear was gone—bitten off, perhaps, in a vicious fight. His face was pale with exhaustion, yet his stance remained solid, like a soldier who would fight to his dying breath.
“Lae’zel,” Voss said, his gravelly voice filled with solemnity. “T’lak’ma ghir.” He stepped forward, his gaze locking onto hers with something that teetered between desperation and pride. “The devil holds the key to freeing our people. Right here, right now, you could seal our fate.”
Lae’zel narrowed her eyes, her voice edged with suspicion. “The kith’rak? Why are you standing beside the devil?”
Voss’s expression didn’t waver, but there was something defeated in his stance—a burden carried for too long.
Raphael sighed dramatically, a faint trace of irritation flickering across his perfect face. “Hush now, Voss,” he said smoothly, waving a hand as if dismissing the knight’s urgency. “These adventurers may not know it yet, but they want the same thing you do.” His grin sharpened as his gaze settled on Alex. “And unlike you, they have something to offer in return.”
Voss said nothing, though his jaw tightened as he turned his gaze to the ground.
Raphael took a confident step forward, clasping his hands behind his back as though he were preparing to address a crowd. “I’m glad you’ve come,” he said, his voice a rich purr. “Not to my door—not yet—but to the final reckoning.” He let the words hang in the air like an unspoken challenge before continuing. “But one more thing before we begin.”
He snapped his fingers.
The change was immediate, though invisible. Alex staggered slightly, his eyes narrowing as he realized what had just happened. Something—an unseen force—settled around them, thick and impenetrable. He could no longer feel the tether to Eilistraee, the goddess’s presence severed as though a wall had slammed into place. Even Orpheus’s protection—silent but constant—was gone.
“Lae’zel,” Raphael said, turning his gaze to her.
“Speak, devil,” she said, her voice tight, her teeth grinding together. “We’re listening.”
Raphael’s grin widened, and his eyes glimmered with victory. “First, I’ll admit—you’ve impressed me,” he said smoothly, pacing before them. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it this far. But no matter how far you come, you’re still on the road to ruin—a road that leads directly to a confrontation with the elder brain.” He stopped, his grin fading slightly, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “At best, it will kill you. At worst, it will destroy everything—everyone—in this city.”
“And you offer us a way out?” Alex said, his voice cold, his arms crossed.
Raphael’s smile returned, slow and indulgent. “I offer you a key,” he said, his eyes flickering toward Lae’zel.
Lae’zel’s teeth bared slightly, her fists clenching at her sides. “Orpheus.”
"Very perceptive . Yes . " Rapahel responded with a nod . " I can give you the means to break him free . " He offered generously .
Unbeknownst to Raphael, a shared thought passed silently between the party. The devil didn’t know the truth—that Orpheus had already been freed. And now, an opportunity lay before them.
Lae’zel, sensing the opening, took a steady breath and stepped forward. “Speak, devil,” she said, her voice measured and dangerous. “We’re listening.”
The game had begun.
“The Orphic Hammer. An artifact capable of shattering the chains that hold the Prince Orpheus—it sits securely in my House of Hope even now,” Raphael explained, his voice like honey dripped on glass—sweet and sharp, deadly in its beauty.
Alex restrained himself from scoffing aloud.
“How very convenient that you have exactly what we need,” Alex said dryly, his tone layered with suspicion.
Raphael’s grin widened, dazzling and unnerving in equal measure. “Isn’t it just?” he purred, his words wrapping themselves around the group like silken chains. “And it is even more convenient that you can give me exactly what I want in return.”
Karlach crossed her arms over her chest as her eyes narrowed on the devil. “Here comes the catch,” she muttered, her gruff tone cutting through the velvet atmosphere like a knife.
Alex tilted his head, his gaze unrelenting as it bored into Raphael. “Let me guess—you want my soul or perhaps all of ours in exchange for the hammer?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, though there was steel underneath.
Raphael’s laughter rang out, smooth and practiced, as though he had heard this line a thousand times before. “You flatter yourself. Truly, you do. My sights are set on something far more valuable than your soul, succulent though it would be.” His eyes glimmered, predatory and amused as he paused for effect.
The room seemed to tighten as he turned his gaze to Lae’zel. The air bristled as if the devil’s very words could rend it apart. “I want the crown that dominates the elder brain,” he said, his voice lowering into something that was almost a whisper, a secret shared with those he found worthy. “And you, Lae’zel of K’liir—you wish to free the forgotten prince, do you not?”
Lae’zel’s chin lifted, her posture as rigid and proud as a blade forged by fire. Her voice, though steady, resonated with longing and desperation barely concealed. “I want nothing more.”
Alex noted the conviction in her words—how true they rang. Lae’zel knew how to act, to channel her emotions into unwavering resolve, but here… here it felt real. The truth she carried, the burden of her people, made her voice tremble like the promise of war on the horizon.
Raphael’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Then it is settled, is it not? A crown for the hammer—a bargain of a lifetime, Lae’zel of K’liir.”
The tension fractured as Gale spoke, his voice edged with warning. “Giving the crown to this devil would be like feeding gunpowder to a lava worm. Agree to nothing.” His words were calm, but his eyes burned with an urgency that clawed at the group’s resolve.
Alex, however, remained unmoving, his gaze locked on the devil as though trying to peer through the layers of charm and lies that cloaked him. “I’m tempted, but tell me, why are you so desperate to get hold of the crown? "
For a moment, Raphael was silent, his gaze flickering with something ancient, something dangerously close to reverence. When he spoke, his voice was softer, almost musing—yet no less deadly.
“I have craved it ever since the archwizard Karsus created it, long centuries ago. A crown that brought ruin to the greatest empire the world has ever known.” He paused, as if tasting the weight of history on his tongue. “The Empire of Netheril.”
The name alone hung in the air like an omen, his words like nails hammered into the coffin of an age long dead.
“That was the golden age of humanity,” he said, his voice tinged with an almost wistful bitterness. “The flying cities of Netheril soared through the skies, vast and untouchable. Their spires kissed the clouds, their magic rivaled even the gods, and their people looked down upon the world as masters of all they surveyed. It was the apex of civilization.”
Raphael’s eyes drifted, as though staring into the past itself. “I was there when it fell apart,” he said, his voice lowering to a guttural whisper. His lips curled into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Entire cities, like angels with broken wings, plummeted from the heavens. I heard the screams—the howls of hundreds of thousands of people watching as the ground rose to meet them. It was not a happy meeting.”
The words sent a chill through the room, the imagery vivid and merciless, each word a dagger to the imagination.
“And Karsus—oh, Karsus,” Raphael continued, almost fondly. “He forged the crown to rival the heavens themselves. A crown that would make any who wore it a god. Not out of malice, no… but ambition. And for that ambition, he doomed them all.”
He turned his gaze to Gale now, the faintest of smirks curling at the edges of his mouth. “Man cannot contain so much power. Karsus’ Folly, the bards and scholars called it. A tragedy. But to me?” His voice darkened, heavy with intention. “I call it hope. The hope of creation. The hope of rising above the petty chains of mortality. And the lesson of unchecked hubris.”
Raphael raised his hand, fingers curling slowly into a fist, as if seizing the very air itself. His voice was like a drumbeat, steady and foreboding. “I knew then that the folly of mortals could be the triumph of devils. That I could use that crown to unite the Nine Hells under one archdevil supreme. Me.”
The words hung heavy, a final, thunderous note in his grand performance. The firelight flickered as though even it recoiled from his ambition.
The silence that followed was palpable. Wyll’s jaw tightened as his hands shook by his side, his body rigid with barely restrained fury. Lae’zel’s face remained composed, but her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white. Gale’s glare burned with defiance, though the tale clearly rattled him to his core.