“What makes you think you’d succeed in using the crown where Karsus couldn’t?” Alex asked, his voice steady, unyielding.
The words struck Raphael like a dagger. His eyes flashed with something dark and primal as his calm façade cracked.
“I AM NOT A MORTAL!” he roared, his voice reverberating through the room like a thunderclap, sharp enough to tear at the ears. “And I do not fail.”
Alex tilted his head, unflinching in the face of Raphael’s fury. “Then how come you didn’t get hold of the crown back then?” His tone was sharp, laced with a quiet curiosity that only added salt to the wound.
Raphael’s composure faltered for just a moment, the air vibrating with the sheer weight of his indignation. “The archdevil Mephistopheles snatched up the crown and squirreled it away in one of his vaults,” he snarled. His voice dripped with venom, each word a dagger of spite. “That frigid archivist, that hoarder. So much power, so much potential—and what does he do with it? He turns a miracle into a museum piece!”
“I raged—oh, how I raged! But only for a decade or so,” he said, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “Then I waited. I watched. For more than a thousand years I have been patient, ever vigilant. I waited for a mistake, a mishap, a misadventure.”
His gaze snapped back to Alex, and his smile returned—slow, malicious, like a wolf who’d caught the scent of blood. “And these champions, these bumbling mortals who have caused you so much trouble? They did me a favor. They brought the crown back into play.”
A grim silence settled for a beat before Karlach snorted derisively, her fiery eyes narrowing. “It must really piss you off that some mortals managed to steal the crown when you couldn’t.”
Raphael’s jaw clenched, and for the briefest moment, his control wavered again. “Yes. It does,” he hissed, his teeth bared. “Especially when I see what a bloody mess they’ve made of their whole scheme. They must have raided Mephistopheles’s vault. Impressive—I’ll admit that much.” His tone turned sardonic, almost bitter. Then, a flicker of predatory glee returned to his expression as he looked pointedly at Alex. “But they’ll be dead soon. If you don’t kill them, the elder brain will. It doesn’t feel anger the way you understand—but oh, it seems rather… displeased.”
He paused, savoring the tension in the room before delivering his final words like a carefully poised dagger. “When you destroy the brain—and you will, because you must—the crown will be yours for the taking. And when the moment comes, you will give the crown to me.”
He raised his chin, his voice dripping with unshakable confidence. “In exchange, I give you the hammer now.”
Alex’s expression hardened, his voice cold and resolute. “I’d rather destroy the crown than risk it falling into the wrong hands again.”
The words struck a chord. Gale’s gaze darted sharply to Alex, his eyes wide with disbelief, as though Alex had shattered a sacred truth.
Raphael sighed, shaking his head as though speaking to a wayward child. “How short-sighted,” he muttered, his tone laced with condescension. “Much better to put it into the right hands—hands that will ensure it is removed from this world. Forever.”
A long pause followed, Raphael’s golden eyes lingering on Alex with an intensity that sent a chill down the spine. Then, his smirk returned, smaller now, yet somehow far more dangerous. “I won’t stop you. But time is running out.”
He raised his hand, the tips of his fingers crackling faintly with power. “If you see reason, I’ll be here, waiting. Right up until the moment the world ends. ”
With a sharp snap of his fingers, Raphael vanished in a swirling cloud of crimson mist. The room fell silent except for the distant echo of his laughter, which seemed to linger, haunting and mocking.
Karlach growled in frustration, stomping a boot against the stone floor. “What a fucking douche. I don’t know why you let him blabber so much. If it were me, I’d have punched that smug bastard square in the face. Ten times over!”
Alex exhaled , unbothered by her outburst. “He did blabber, but he also spilled information. Some of it might be useful later.”
Karlach snorted but said nothing, begrudgingly conceding the point.
Alex turned toward Voss, who stepped forward from the shadows. Voss’s gaze met his, sharp and unwavering. Without a word, Alex summoned his sword. With a firm grip, he drove it into the stone ground. A radiant shockwave burst from the blade, forming a shimmering dome of light around the group, shielding them from any prying eyes.
“This should keep us safe,” Alex murmured.
From Shadowheart’s satchel, the Astral Prism stirred. It hovered into the air, pulsing with psionic energy, and slowly materialized before Voss. The psionic energy began to take shape, coalescing into a shimmering figure.
Orpheus.
The githyanki prince’s form was majestic yet ethereal, his body a beacon of psionic brilliance. His eyes radiated a calm power, like stars burning in the darkness of the Astral Sea.
Voss’s eyes widened, awe washing over him like a tide. He lifted his arms high, his voice trembling with reverence. “Sha’vah Orpheus! Sha’vah Orpheus! Sha’vah Orpheus!”
Orpheus turned his radiant gaze to Voss, his expression softening into a smile. “Voss, my most loyal friend,” he said, his voice warm yet regal, like the caress of a long-forgotten song. “It is good to see you once again. How far you have come, how hard you have fought.”
Voss bowed low, his voice thick with emotion. “You honor me, Your Radiance.” He turned his gaze to Alex, his tone heavy with gratitude. “Thanks to you, the skies above Tu’narah shall tremble with psalms of freedom.” He turned back to Orpheus, his voice resolute. “Orpheus will take the truth to the people. We will slay the Lich Queen. Our chains will be cleaved.”
Lae’zel stepped forward, her voice as fierce and unyielding as a war drum. “Vlaakith will splinter like glass and vanish like smoke. Sha’vah Orpheus!”
Her conviction filled the space like a thunderclap, reverberating through the group. Alex watched them, his heart steady as he felt the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders. They stood on the brink of destiny, their path paved with blood, sacrifice, and the promise of liberation.
Orpheus turned to Alex, his psionic form shimmering faintly. His gaze, steady and filled with centuries of wisdom, bore into Alex’s. “This champion holds the key to its defeat,” Orpheus declared, his voice rich and commanding, resonating with the weight of destiny. He shifted his gaze to Voss. “Stand by for orders, Voss. Answer to him as you would answer to me.”
The gravity of his words seemed to ground the room itself. Orpheus’s radiant form flickered slightly, his strength waning. “I am still recovering from millennia of imprisonment,” he admitted, his voice touched with an undercurrent of fatigue. “But I promise you this—when the time comes, Vlaakith will fall.”
Voss dropped to one knee, his head bowed deeply. “As you wish, Prince Orpheus,” he said, his voice reverent, as though speaking a prayer.
Orpheus allowed himself a small smile, his features softening for a brief moment. “Go forth, my loyal friend. We will prevail.”
His projection flickered one last time, his form dissolving into threads of light. The Astral Prism, now dormant, hummed faintly as it returned to Shadowheart’s satchel.
Voss rose slowly, his gaze firm and unwavering as he turned to Alex. “I must leave for now,” he said, his voice resolute. “There are others who need to hear that Orpheus has returned. You will find me in the sewers when the time comes.”
He stepped out of the protective dome and into the tunnels beyond, his silhouette quickly swallowed by the shadows.
“Wow, Lae’zel,” Astarion remarked with a bemused grin, breaking the lingering silence. “I didn’t know you had such a silver tongue.”
Lae’zel turned to him, her jaw set with pride. “Deception is not my usual tool,” she admitted, resting a firm hand on the hilt of her greatsword. “But I seem to wield it with talent when necessary.”
“A budding liar,” Astarion teased. “How delightfully dangerous.”
Gale stepped forward, his robes swaying slightly as he approached Alex. “We should pay a visit to Sorcerous Sundries,” he said, his tone laced with excitement. “Their book collection is the envy of the Sword Coast. I am certain that the solution to our dilemma lurks somewhere on their shelves.”
Alex nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds like a good idea.”
Gale’s lips curled into a confident smile. “The only kind I have. Their collection of rare tomes is unparalleled. Netherese texts are hardly commonplace, but I’d wager they have at least one or two stashed away.”
Before Alex could respond, Astarion interjected with a frustrated scoff. “And what about the scars on my back?” he asked indignantly. “We still don’t know what they mean.”
Gale raised a brow and offered a contemplative nod. “Perhaps Sorcerous Sundries has a book on infernal runes. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Astarion clicked his tongue but gave a small nod of agreement.
Alex turned to Wyll, who was already watching him intently. With a subtle gesture, Alex summoned shadows that coiled around them like living smoke, swallowing the group whole.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
In an instant, they reappeared in a dimly lit room, its air damp and heavy. Barrels, crates, and chests cluttered the space, and the faint scent of mildew hung in the air.
“This place…” Wyll muttered, his voice low with recognition as his eyes scanned the room. “We’re beneath Wyrm’s Rock Fortress—in its prison storage room.”
Alex nodded and approached the single wooden door in the room. He pushed it open with ease, revealing a long, torchlit hallway. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows along the stone walls, creating an uneasy atmosphere.
The group moved forward. To their left, a metal gate revealed a staircase leading to the fortress’s ground level. To their right stretched a massive hall lined with cells on either side, their iron bars rusted and crooked with age.
“Why are there no guards around?” Wyll asked, his brow furrowing.
“They’re in one of those cells,” Alex replied simply, his tone matter-of-fact. “Sleeping.”
Instead of taking either path, Alex led the group forward toward what appeared to be a dead end. Barrels and a cart laden with white stone sat haphazardly against the walls. Alex approached the wall, his movements deliberate, and waved a hand to push aside the barrels.
Behind them lay a pair of small dragon statues, their stony eyes locked onto each other. Alex’s fingers sparked with arcs of blue lightning, which he channeled into the first statue. Its mouth erupted with blue flames. He repeated the process with the second statue, and the solid wall behind him began to shimmer.
With a low hum, the wall dissolved, leaving behind a curtain of blue mist that pulsed faintly in place. Without hesitation, Alex stepped through, his form vanishing into the mist. He turned briefly to gesture for the others to follow. One by one, they stepped through, entering a hidden tunnel carved from ancient stone.
The air inside the tunnel was damp and cold, carrying with it the faint smell of earth and decay. The architecture mirrored that of the prison above, but time had not been kind here.
The tunnel sloped downward, leading them to a rusted iron gate at its end. Alex pushed it open with a loud creak, and they stepped into another chamber.
The sight that greeted them was one of ruin and reclamation. Walls crumbled and cracked, overtaken by creeping vines and patches of moss. Nature was slowly swallowing the space.
A few steps ahead, beside a weathered wooden door, stood a statue of a man—his hand raised to his brow, gazing heroically into the distance. It was unmistakably Balduran, the legendary hero of Baldur’s Gate.
Alex’s eyes lingered on the statue for a moment, a flicker of memory stirring in his mind. He could almost hear Ansur’s voice, questioning Balduran’s decision to erect a statue of himself here at the entrance of their hideout.
To the left, three faded murals adorned the walls, their colors worn and muted by the passage of centuries. Each mural told a fragment of the story of Ansur and Balduran.
Wyll’s gaze locked onto the leftmost mural, his expression softening with reverence. “A bronze dragon and an elf sailor… Balduran and Ansur,” he murmured, his voice tinged with awe.
Alex turned his attention to the mural as well. It depicted the moment of Balduran and Ansur’s first meeting, their expressions captured in faded hues of determination and camaraderie. The details were faint, but the story was unmistakable: two souls from different worlds, united by fate and forged into legends.
As Wyll’s words hung in the air, Alex stepped closer to the mural, his gaze lingering on the faded image of Balduran standing tall, his hand extended in camaraderie toward the mighty bronze dragon, Ansur. The ancient artistry was weathered, yet the emotions it conveyed—trust, friendship, purpose—remained vivid. Alex reached out, his fingertips tracing the outlines as though touching the memory itself.
He turned back to the group, his expression distant, yet his eyes gleamed with something intimate and profound. “I know this story,” Alex said softly. “Not from books, but from Balduran himself. His memories linger into mine. Let me show you.”
He closed his eyes, and as he spoke, the air seemed to hum with life, the weight of history seeping into the ruined chamber.
“It was long ago,” Alex began, his voice steady, resonant. “Balduran’s ship had been caught in a storm, the kind that seems conjured by gods or demons—waves as tall as mountains, lightning carving the heavens. The crew clung to the rigging for dear life, their prayers drowned by the roaring sea. They were days from the Sword Coast, far beyond the reach of help.”
The party listened intently as Alex’s words painted the scene. Lae’zel’s grip tightened on her greatsword, Astarion crossed his arms with feigned indifference, and Gale’s thoughtful expression hinted at admiration for the unfolding tale.
“Amid the chaos, Balduran stood at the helm, defiant,” Alex continued. “The wind whipped at his hair, the salt stung his skin, but he refused to abandon his men. He shouted orders, his voice cutting through the storm like a beacon. But even the greatest of captains is mortal, and the sea cares little for courage. When the mast cracked and fell, Balduran knew it was over. The ship would sink, and they’d all be lost.”
Wyll frowned, already drawn into the tension of the story. “So what happened?”
Alex smiled faintly, the memory sharpening in his mind. “The storm’s fury was silenced by a roar. Not the roar of the sea, nor the wind, but something ancient and powerful. From the clouds descended Ansur, his bronze scales gleaming even through the rain. He was a force of nature, wings spread wide like banners of hope. He landed amidst the wreckage, his massive body stabilizing the broken ship.”
In the vision Alex painted, the storm quieted as the dragon’s immense form loomed over the ship. Balduran, battered but unbroken, stared up at Ansur with awe but no fear.
“Who dares enter in my domain?” Ansur’s voice was a rumble, deep and resonant, as he folded his wings. His piercing eyes scanned the wreckage, then fell upon Balduran. “Speak, sailor, before I decide your fate.”
Balduran straightened, his voice firm despite the odds. “I am Balduran, captain of this ship and servant to no storm nor dragon. I seek only to save my crew. If that earns your wrath, so be it.”
The dragon’s nostrils flared, steam rising in tendrils. “Bold words for a mortal teetering on the edge of death. Why should I waste my strength to save you?”
Balduran met Ansur’s gaze with unyielding resolve. “Because I have no fear of death,” he said plainly. “But I will not allow these men to die without trying. If you can help, I’ll pay any price.”
Alex paused, looking back at the mural. “Ansur didn’t expect defiance. Nor honesty. He was used to mortals groveling, begging. But Balduran… Balduran intrigued him.”
In the memory, Ansur’s great head tilted slightly, his molten eyes narrowing. “Any price, you say? You might regret that.” He let out a low, rumbling laugh before stepping forward. “Very well, captain. I will save your crew. But I’ll also see if your spirit is as unbreakable as your words.”
The dragon took flight again, lifting the remains of the ship with his claws. He carried them to the safety of a small island, where Balduran and his men disembarked, battered but alive. The crew cheered, praising both their captain and the dragon who had saved them, but Balduran didn’t join the celebration. Instead, he approached Ansur as the dragon rested, his wings folded like a great bronze cathedral.
“I owe you a debt,” Balduran said, his tone sincere.
Ansur snorted, a puff of smoke curling from his nostrils. “You owe me your life, mortal. But I have no need of treasure or trinkets.”
Balduran shook his head. “I didn’t mean gold. I meant my loyalty. You saved my crew because of me, and for that, you’ve earned my respect. If ever you have need of me, I will come.”
For a moment, the dragon said nothing, simply studying the mortal before him. Then, Ansur rumbled a quiet laugh. “Bold . Very well. I accept your offer. But know this—loyalty is not a thing given lightly. Prove to me that you understand its weight, and I may call you friend yet.”
Alex opened his eyes, the memory fading as he looked at the group. “From that day, they were bound by that promise. Over time, it grew into something more—a true friendship. They fought together, bled together, and built something greater than either could have imagined. Balduran was the mortal Ansur trusted above all others, and Ansur became Balduran’s guiding star.”
The room was silent for a moment, save for the faint crackle of the torches. Wyll was the first to speak, his voice reverent. “A captain who faced a dragon with nothing but courage… and a dragon who saw him as an equal.”
Wyll stepped closer to the central mural, the faint colors whispering of a grand past. "What a grand sight," he murmured, tracing the outlines of Balduran and Ansur depicted soaring high above the city they had vowed to protect. “Balduran and his dragon friend, looking over Baldur’s Gate.”
Alex’s gaze lingered on the mural, and for a moment, his surroundings blurred. A memory, or perhaps an echo, took him. He could feel the crisp wind whipping against his face as he soared high in the sky, the city below a glittering sprawl of bustling streets and warm lights. Riding atop Ansur, Alex glanced at the dragon, and their eyes met. The copper dragon grinned, an expression of playful mischief, before curling his wings and diving suddenly, the rush of air stealing Alex's breath and making Balduran almost lose his grip. Ansur’s laughter rumbled in his chest, reverberating through the skies.
The memory faded, leaving Alex standing in silence as Wyll moved to the third and final mural.
The rightmost painting was dimmer than the others, its pigments faded almost to obscurity. And yet, the story it told was unmistakable—heart-wrenching in its simplicity. A lone ship sailed into the sunset, its white sails stark against the fiery hues of the departing sun. In the distance, a copper dragon sat on a hill, watching the ship grow smaller and smaller, a shadow against the endless sea.
Wyll’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “Balduran left the city in good hands—or so he thought.” His words hung in the air like a lament, heavy with the weight of what was to come.
Alex’s throat tightened as he took in the imagery. This was Balduran’s final voyage, the last time he would ever see his home as a man. He could almost feel the bittersweet hope Balduran must have carried as he sailed away, unaware of the horrors that awaited him. The knowledge that this voyage would ultimately lead to his transformation into a mind flayer cast a haunting shadow over the mural.
The group turned away from the murals, their footsteps slow as they approached the wooden door ahead. To their right, the statue of Balduran stirred to life, its stone lips parting. “Enter and be judged,” it commanded, its voice deep and resonant, echoing with the strength of the hero it depicted.
The door creaked open, revealing a vast chamber bathed in an otherworldly glow. Massive blue-white crystals jutted from the ground, their translucent surfaces humming faintly as they refracted the light. Streams of water trickled down the walls, their gentle flow adding a soothing undercurrent to the otherwise heavy silence.
“Two centuries wandering the streets, and I never knew something like this was beneath them,” Astarion said, his voice tinged with awe as his crimson eyes roved across the space.
Alex stepped ahead, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. “This place had been even more magnificent before it fell into ruin,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet reverence. The faint sound of a waterfall reached them, its roar subdued by the vastness of the chamber.
They crossed a narrow bridge spanning a deep chasm, the glint of cascading water visible to their left. A waterfall spilled into the void, the mist it created catching the crystal light and forming ephemeral rainbows. The sight, though breathtaking, felt heavy, as if the beauty of the place mourned its forgotten purpose.
At the end of the bridge, the path split into five distinct directions, each leading to a different trial. But it was the door straight ahead that captured their attention. Tall and imposing, it was fashioned from dark metal, with the head of a dragon engraved at its center—a majestic depiction of Ansur, his expression noble and unyielding.
“You will need to complete this place’s trials before that door will open,” Alex explained, his voice steady but distant, as if his mind was already considering the challenges ahead.
Without another word, Alex moved to a nearby rock and sat down, the motion deliberate. His companions looked at him in confusion.
“What are you doing?” Astarion asked, his brow raised in disbelief.
Alex leaned back slightly, his posture deceptively casual. “I’m taking a break. You will do the trials.”
The group stared at him, their silence filled with a mixture of confusion and frustration.
“You can’t be serious,” Lae’zel growled, her hand tightening around her greatsword.
But Alex didn’t waver. His expression held the quiet confidence of someone who knew more than he was letting on. Despite their initial urge to argue, his companions relented. He wouldn’t have made this decision without reason.
With Wyll at the front, they moved to the first door on the right. It groaned as they pushed it open, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a warning. As they stepped inside, the dim light swallowed them, leaving Alex alone in the vast hall.
Alex’s gaze lingered on the door they had entered, his thoughts a tempest of strategy and contemplation. For now, the trials were theirs to face—but his own burdens would come soon enough. The silence of the chamber seemed to press in, the echoes of forgotten heroes watching from the shadows.