The party stepped into the round chamber, its atmosphere thick with an eerie stillness. The space mirrored what they had encountered so far—crumbling stone walls and glowing white crystals that jutted from the ground, their light casting ghostly reflections against the fractured surfaces. The air was damp and cold.
Ahead, a stone platform rose slightly above the rest of the room, supported by three weathered stone pillars. A chasm surrounded the platform, yawning so deep that it swallowed light itself. They couldn’t see the bottom, only the oppressive void that seemed to whisper of forgotten things.
At the center of the platform stood a statue of Balduran, carved with meticulous detail. His stance was one of defiance, his sword drawn and his sharp gaze fixed on an unseen enemy. At his feet, a torch burned with ethereal blue flames, casting flickering light across the hollow chamber.
As the group approached, the statue came to life, its voice reverberating through the chamber like the tolling of a great bell.
“A champion burns bright even when rushing waters and moaning winds threaten to extinguish the flames. Take the torch. Withstand the elements. Prove your courage.”
Wyll looked to his companions, their weapons drawn and ready. Astarion held his dagger in one hand, the Hellfire Hand Crossbow in the other, his sharp eyes scanning for threats.
Shadowheart gripped her spear blessed by Selûne, her shield already raised.
Gale stood with his staff at the ready, the faint glow of arcane power swirling at his fingertips.
Lae’zel’s burning sword glimmered ominously in the flickering light, while Karlach stood like a blazing inferno, her dragon-heart’s power radiating through her glaive.
With a determined nod, Wyll stepped forward and took the torch from the statue. The blue flames danced in his grip, unnaturally cold but unyielding.
Without warning, the chamber came alive with chaos. Elementals materialized from the ether, their forms shifting and swirling with the forces of nature—water, air, ice, and earth.
One of the ice elementals raised its hand, and a glacial explosion erupted in their midst. The ground froze in an instant, and the air stung with icy shards. The elementals surged forward, their attacks relentless and unyielding.
Karlach’s form ignited in a blaze of fire, her flames melting the frost beneath her feet as she charged. Gale raised his hands, channeling the fiery energy of a Fireball. The spell exploded into the cluster of elementals, scattering them like shards of glass, but the room filled again as more materialized.
Astarion moved with lethal precision, each bolt from his crossbow striking true, while Shadowheart deftly parried an earth elemental’s crushing blow, her shield shuddering with the impact. Lae’zel wielded her sword with unmatched discipline, each strike cleaving through the elementals with brutal efficiency. Wyll fought at the center, his infernal rapier slashing through the swirling chaos, leaving a fiery trail in its wake.
But no matter how many they felled, the elementals kept coming, their numbers endless. The realization dawned on them as their eyes fell on one of the four pillars surrounding the platform. A glowing sphere of lightning had materialized within a stone ring at its center.
“What does it mean?” Shadowheart called, her spear cutting through an air elemental that had come too close.
“We don’t know yet,” Wyll replied, his voice strained but steady. He tightened his grip on the torch as more elementals swarmed, their attacks threatening to snuff out the blue flame.
The party closed ranks, forming a defensive circle around Wyll as the onslaught intensified.
“Karlach, use your fire breath!” Wyll commanded.
Karlach’s dragon-heart pulsed brightly as she inhaled deeply. A roar of flames erupted from her, incinerating the elementals before her in a searing cone of destruction. But even her powerful attack could not hold back the tide for long.
“Raise a barrier!” Wyll shouted, turning to Astarion.
With a nod, Astarion cast a shimmering dome of psionic energy around them. The elementals battered against the barrier, but it held firm. Meanwhile, a second sphere of lightning lit up at another pillar.
“What now?” Shadowheart asked, her eyes darting between the barrier and the remaining pillars.
“We wait,” Wyll said, his gaze steady. He pointed at the remaining pillars. “The statue said, ‘Withstand the elements.’ It didn’t mention we need to destroy them.”
“And what if we’re wrong?” Astarion countered, his voice laced with skepticism.
Gale interjected, his tone calm and confident. “Wyll is right. The trials are meant to test resilience, not violence. We hold the line until all the pillars light up.”
Trusting Gale’s reasoning, the group focused on holding their position. Slowly but surely, the remaining pillars began to glow, each one adding a new ball of lightning to the chamber. The elementals battered relentlessly against the barrier, but the party held fast, their courage unwavering.
When the final pillar lit up, the onslaught stopped. The elementals vanished in an instant, their forms dissipating like mist.
A collective sigh of relief passed through the group. Even Karlach’s fiery intensity dimmed slightly as she caught her breath.
Wyll returned the torch to the statue’s feet. The statue itself began to glow softly, its stern expression melting into a faint smile.
“Are we done here?” Astarion asked, brushing a bit of ice from his armor.
“Hopefully,” Wyll replied with a weary grin.
They made their way back to the main chamber, where one of the four statues standing in a semicircle began to glow faintly. Its design mirrored the statue from the room they had just left.
“Three more to go,” Gale murmured, wiping sweat from his brow.
His gaze moved to Alex, who was still sitting by the rock where they had left him. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady.
“Is he… sleeping?” Karlach asked, tilting her head.
Wyll smiled faintly. “Let him rest. We’ll handle the next challenge.”
Determined, the group descended a flight of stairs to the next door. Vines and moss clung to its surface, and the faint scent of earth and vegetation filled the air.
With a light push, the door creaked open, revealing the next trial ahead. They stepped inside, their resolve unshaken, ready to face whatever awaited them.
Wyll raised his hand and cast Eldritch Blast, a surge of crackling energy smashing into the crystalline barrier ahead. Shards of broken crystal scattered across the chamber floor, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. With the path cleared, the group stepped forward, only to halt as the room’s peculiar centerpiece came into view.
Before them lay a giant checkerboard floor, its black and white tiles forming a perfect square. Towering above it, a statue of Balduran stood tall to the right of the board, clutching a chess piece in one hand and gazing at it with a contemplative expression.
Gale’s eyes widened with excitement. “Is that… a giant game of Lanceboard?” He stepped closer, his academic curiosity piqued.
Lae’zel furrowed her brow as she studied the board. “What is Lanceboard?” she asked, her voice laced with genuine intrigue.
Gale adjusted his robes, clearly relishing the opportunity to educate. “Ah, Lanceboard, or as some call it, ‘chess.’ A game of wits and strategy, one of the ‘four universal games’ of Faerûn, alongside draughts, dice, and Talis. It’s played on a checkered board with pieces representing pawns, knights, rooks, bishops, a queen, and, of course, a king. The goal? To outmaneuver your opponent and trap their king, rendering it defenseless.”
Lae’zel smirked as she crossed her arms. “We have something similar among the Githyanki. We call it…” She paused, then declared, “Zar’kresh.”
Gale tilted his head. “Does it involve strategy as well?”
Lae’zel’s grin widened, revealing sharp teeth. “Of course. But our version is more... spirited. The loser must fight the winner unarmed, while the victor retains their blade. It ensures that one’s wits and strength are tested in equal measure.”
The party exchanged uneasy glances, the mental image of such a “game” unsettling. But the moment was fleeting; their attention soon returned to the board.
The pieces—white and purple—were already set in a formation. They appeared meticulously crafted, towering above the group like silent sentinels, waiting for their commanders to make the first move.
Gale rubbed his chin thoughtfully, taking in the arrangement of the pieces. As he did, the Balduran statue began to speak, its deep voice resonating through the chamber.
“Prove your strategic wits. There is but one rule: The dark king must fall in two moves. Are you a commander of armies or a shivering pawn—fodder for clever minds?”
The weight of the challenge settled over the group. Wyll stepped closer to the board, his brow furrowed in concentration. He studied the pieces intently, but it became clear that he was struggling to find the solution.
Astarion leaned against a nearby piece, his expression amused. “Didn’t your father teach you how to play? The game is quite popular among noble families.”
Wyll shook his head, still scanning the board. “I found it boring,” he admitted, frustration creeping into his voice.
The others allowed him a moment to try, though it was evident that the puzzle was beyond him.
Finally, Gale stepped forward with a confident grin. “I’ve been known to shuffle knights around in my day. May I offer a suggestion?”
Wyll sighed, but nodded. “Go ahead, Gale. I’m listening.”
Gale gestured to the board. “First, move your white queen to the upper-right corner. Then shift her four squares to the left. The dark king will retreat after the first move, but by the second, it’ll be trapped. Checkmate.”
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Wyll followed Gale’s instructions, gripping the queen—a piece nearly as tall as himself—and pushing it into place. The massive piece glided across the board with a faint hum, its new position glowing faintly. As predicted, the dark king moved forward, attempting to evade.
With precision, Wyll moved the queen again, four squares to the left. The king shattered on impact, its fragments scattering into nothingness. A soft, golden light enveloped the Balduran statue, signaling their success.
Astarion smirked, crossing his arms. “That was almost too easy.” He leaned casually against a purple rook, his demeanor as nonchalant as ever.
A crackling sound filled the air. Before anyone could warn him, a bolt of lightning shot down from above, striking Astarion directly.
His hair stood on end, and smoke wafted from his singed clothing. He staggered, his expression frozen in shock.
The party erupted into laughter, the tension of the trial melting away in an instant.
“Hilarious,” Astarion muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He ran his hands through his now-static hair, his tone rising in frustration. “WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO MY HAIR?”
Even Karlach doubled over with laughter, her fiery form flickering with mirth. “You look… majestic!” she teased through her giggles.
As the group regained their composure, they exited the chamber. In the main hall, another of the four statues began to glow softly, its light joining the first.
“Two down, two to go,” Gale said, brushing off his robes. His gaze shifted to Alex, still leaning against the rock. His chest rose and fell steadily, his eyes closed in restful slumber.
“Is he seriously still sleeping?” Karlach asked, incredulous.
Wyll smiled faintly. “Let him rest. We’re doing just fine.”
The party paused at the edge of a deep chasm that separated them from the next trial. The abyss yawned before them, dark and foreboding, as water cascaded gently from the ceiling in a steady stream, vanishing into the void below.
They had almost walked past this trial entirely when Astarion’s sharp eyes caught sight of a door nestled between the two unlit statues to the left.
“Wait,” he said, pointing. “That’s the next one, isn’t it?”
The group stopped, turning to see the seemingly unassuming entryway.
Water streamed down into the center of the chasm in an endless, glimmering ribbon. Shadowheart squinted, her keen instincts catching something off. She bent down, picked up a small pebble, and tossed it into the abyss.
To everyone’s surprise, the pebble didn’t fall—it hovered, suspended mid-air, as though resting on an invisible surface.
“An invisible bridge,” Gale said, his voice tinged with awe and curiosity.
Karlach frowned, folding her arms. “Right. Who’s going first?”
Wyll, stepped forward. He cautiously extended a foot over the edge, testing the unseen surface. When he felt something solid beneath his boot, he placed his other foot forward, walking ahead with careful steps.
“Feels sturdy enough,” he said, glancing back at the group.
With that assurance, the rest of the party followed, each one moving with a mixture of trust and trepidation. As they reached the other side, they found themselves before a simple wooden door—its appearance underwhelming compared to the grandeur of the trials so far.
Wyll pushed the door open, revealing a small, dimly lit chamber. A statue of Balduran stood to the right, holding a book as though deep in study. The moment they entered, the statue’s eyes glowed faintly, and it began to speak in a resonant voice:
“A good leader possesses the insight to find wise counsel. But as war reaches its end, there is one who advises against prosperity. Find them and strike them down.”
“Are those ghosts?” Astarion asked, his gaze shifting past the statue to three glowing red projections further back.
"I think we need to strike one of them . " Gale said . "But which one ? "
The group turned to see three figures: two women and a tiefling man. They stood frozen in place, unmoving.
Ahead, the cave opened into a massive vertical chamber. A spiraling staircase hugged the jagged stone walls, ascending into the shadows above. The sound of fluttering wings drew their attention as a flying book darted past them, weaving erratically through the air.
Astarion raised his hand crossbow, his aim steady as he fired a bolt. The projectile zipped through the air but missed its mark as the book disappeared higher up the stairs.
“Pesky thing,” Astarion muttered, lowering his weapon as they began their climb.
At the top, they found a small, cluttered library. Stone shelves lined the walls, laden with weathered books, while loose tomes lay scattered in untidy piles across the floor.
“Don’t tell me we have to sift through all this to figure out who the bad counselor is,” Astarion groaned, exasperated.
“It would appear so,” Gale replied, already scanning the shelves with a studious gleam in his eyes. “A trial of intellect. Delightful!”
While Gale seemed invigorated by the challenge, the rest of the party began their search with varying degrees of enthusiasm. They combed through the books methodically, hoping to find some clue or connection.
Minutes stretched into an hour with no progress. Just as the group’s patience wore thin, the flying book reappeared, flitting about wildly. Astarion didn’t hesitate this time—he raised his crossbow and fired again.
The bolt struck true. Instead of disappearing, the book fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
“Finally,” Astarion muttered, retrieving the book. He flipped it open, his grin widening as he skimmed the pages.
Before he could share his findings, Karlach’s voice rang out from across the room. “Hey, guys, look what I found!”
The fiery woman held up a worn parchment, her excitement evident.
“Is it the clue?” Astarion asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Not quite,” Karlach admitted, “but it’s interesting.” She began to read aloud:
"This text roots its subject on Balduran, a sailor of exquisite renown who founded the city of Baldur's Gate many years ago. The prose is colorful but a little too self-satisfied round the edges, and the novel would be unremarkable but for one small entry about halfway through:"
"Balduran claimed a guardian and friend, Ansur. Bright were Ansur's scales, and brighter still his breath! Yet after a betrayal too piercing to recount here in worthy detail, Ansur fled beneath the stone, thereby changing the name of the region he now slumbers under to match his draconic lineage."
The room fell silent as the group processed the tale. The name Ansur hung heavy in the air, dredging up memories of Balduran’s tragic betrayal.
In the corner of his eye, Astarion spotted the book he had shot down. He snatched it up and skimmed its contents quickly. This time, his grin turned into a full smirk.
“Well, well,” he said, turning to face the party. “It seems I’ve found exactly what we’re looking for.”
The party made their way to the trio of glowing projections, their translucent forms flickering with an eerie red hue. Without hesitation, Astarion drew his dagger, stepped forward, and plunged the blade into the head of the projection on the left.
The projection shattered into shards of crimson light, dissipating like smoke. Simultaneously, the statue of Balduran began to glow faintly, signaling that the trial had been successfully completed.
“How did you know that was Suelto?” Gale asked, closing the book Astarion had been reading moments earlier.
Astarion shrugged nonchalantly, sheathing his dagger. “I didn’t. It just looked the most villainous, so I took a chance.”
The rest of the party stared at him, expressions blank with exasperation.
“Hey, it worked. That’s what matters.” Astarion flashed a grin, clearly pleased with himself.
Wyll sighed and shook his head. “Your methods, Astarion, are as reckless as they are effective.”
With little else to say, Wyll turned and began leading the group toward the final trial, the others falling into step behind him.
The last trial did not have its own chamber or cave like the others. Instead, it was situated in an alcove to the left side of the main hall, shrouded in a foreboding air.
Six ancient paintings adorned the stone walls, each one illuminated by faintly flickering candles. The wax had long since melted into pools at the base of the frames, forming uneven rivulets that looked almost like veins. The paintings were faded, yet their images retained a haunting clarity—depicting scenes of judgment, punishment, and betrayal.
At the center of the alcove stood a raised platform wreathed in thick, swirling black smoke. Through the haze, they could barely make out the form of a dark figure hunched in the middle, its features obscured. The creature seemed bound by glowing sigils etched into the floor around it, their eerie light pulsating in rhythmic intervals.
Surrounding the platform were three pedestals, angled toward the shadowy figure. Each pedestal held a rectangular object, but whatever lay atop them was concealed by a void-like darkness that seemed to repel light itself.
Another statue of Balduran, this time holding a balanced scale in his hands, stood just before the platform. As the party drew closer, the statue’s eyes glowed, and its lips began to move:
“A true champion knows justice and eradicates those who corrupt its balance. Restore the scales of justice.”
The party exchanged uneasy glances, the cryptic message offering little in terms of clear guidance.
“Well, this feels far less straightforward than the other trials,” Karlach muttered, tightening her grip on her glaive.
Gale stepped forward, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “If I were to venture a guess, the shadowy figure in the center could be the source of corruption. Perhaps we’re meant to destroy it.”
Karlach peered at the creature, her eyes narrowing. “It looks like one of those cursed shadows we fought in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Definitely evil.”
Without waiting for further discussion, Karlach stepped onto the platform, her fiery determination evident. She raised her glaive in a sweeping motion and brought it down with all her strength.
But the blade passed through the dark figure like smoke through fingers. The shadow didn’t react, nor did the glowing sigils waver.
Karlach frowned, stepping back. “It can’t be that simple,” she muttered, returning to the group. “What now?”
Shadowheart stepped forward, her gaze lingering on the paintings. “Those paintings must hold the key to this trial,” she said, her tone contemplative.
The group turned their attention to the six paintings mounted on the walls, each telling a fragment of a story that unraveled the trial before them.
The first painting, titled The Apple, depicted a red-haired fruit seller absentmindedly selecting a scarlet apple from a basket, his gaze fixed on a group of children laughing and playing nearby.
"This is The Wide," Wyll commented. "A bustling market in the Upper City where citizens and visitors gather to trade and, on occasion, wax political."
Astarion’s crimson eyes lingered on the painting, a flicker of longing crossing his face. "I remember The Wide. I used to enjoy its charm... before I became what I am."
Shadowheart turned to him, curiosity glinting in her eyes. "Why not go back?"
Astarion gestured vaguely. "The market closes at sunset. Not exactly spawn-friendly hours."
The group moved to the second painting, titled The Child. It showed a red-haired man crouched before a smiling urchin, offering them a ripe red apple. Behind them, several other children gathered, their expressions a mixture of longing and hunger.
The third painting, The Induction, captured the same red-haired man speaking in hushed tones with a dark-haired woman.
Karlach squinted, her finger tracing an odd detail. "Look at her cloak. That symbol—it’s a series of tally marks. Nine in total."
Gale frowned. "Nine is often associated with the Hells. Perhaps she’s of infernal persuasion."
They moved to the fourth painting, The Thief, which depicted the man in an opulent hall, his hands clutching an ornate artifact.
Gale leaned in, studying the item. "That’s an astrolabe of entrapment. Such an artifact could hold a dozen djinni—or more—within its enchanted mechanisms."
Wyll nodded. "This place looks like the Hall of Wonders, a museum in Baldur’s Gate dedicated to Gond’s relics. It displays both the practical and the fantastical."
The fifth painting, The Chase, showed the man sprinting through the winding alleys of the Upper City, his scarlet hair a blur. A Flaming Fist officer followed close behind, while the dark-haired woman observed from the shadows.
"That’s the same woman from the third painting," Wyll noted .
Finally, the last painting, titled The Judgment, depicted a grim-faced judge with his pockets bulging with coins. He sentenced the red-haired man to the gallows, a shiny apple resting innocuously on the ground nearby.
"People are quick to forget your good deeds when they have a bad one to condemn," Astarion said softly, his tone laced with bitterness.
Wyll’s expression grew thoughtful. "It’s all a story—a man who stole an apple for hungry children, then spiraled into theft, betrayal, and ultimately judgment." His gaze shifted to the dark figure on the platform, which spoke in a low, hollow tone:
"My judgment is rendered. The punishment is due."
Wyll’s eyes moved to the three shrouded paintings on the pedestals and the empty space on the larger pedestal in the center.
"We need to reveal the paintings, choose the right one, and place it on the central pedestal to restore balance."
The group turned to Shadowheart expectantly.
"What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You can dispel the darkness, can’t you?" Wyll asked.
Shadowheart sighed, summoning her psionic mirror. "I’m no cleric anymore, but this will do."
She angled the mirror toward the first shrouded painting. The void-like darkness was absorbed, revealing a grim piece titled The Hanging. The painting showed the red-haired man with a noose tight around his neck, his face stoic as the city’s inhabitants stared coldly. An urchin wept at the edge of the scene.
"This doesn’t feel right," Karlach said, her voice heavy with unease.
Shadowheart nodded, moving to the next painting. She repeated the process, unveiling one titled Freedom. It depicted the thief tossing a hard-earned coin in the air as he slipped unnoticed past a Flaming Fist officer.
Astarion smirked. "Now this one I like. Let’s pick it."
Lae’zel scoffed. "If Astarion likes it, then it is surely the wrong choice."
Shadowheart rolled her eyes and moved to the final pedestal. The darkness faded to reveal The Cell, where the thief sat behind iron bars, scratching tallies onto the wall to mark the days of his imprisonment.
Wyll stepped forward, his voice steady. "The right path often lies between extremes. Not death, not freedom—atonement. This is the one."
He took the painting and carefully placed it on the empty pedestal. The moment he did, the oppressive darkness lifted, and the shadowy figure dissolved into light. The statue of Balduran glowed brightly, signaling the trial’s completion.