Just outside the maze sat another open room, a sanctuary of knowledge and tranquility, where time seemed to pause, allowing us to savor the stillness of thought. Lyra’s face lit up as she stepped inside, her eyes wide with delight. “Oh, I could live in this room,” she beamed. The sunlight, streaming through the large, round enchanted window, poured in like liquid gold, casting soft, delicate shadows that danced across the floor. It created an intoxicating interplay of light and darkness, amplifying the magic in the air. The intricate design of the window, with its concentric circles, resembled the eye of some ancient, watchful creature peering out into the lush, green atrium beyond, a place teeming with promise and adventure.
Halsin stood transfixed, staring out into the atrium beyond the glass, his breath catching. “It is as though the room itself breathes in harmony with the forest,” he murmured, captivated by the seamless connection between nature and intellect, the trees swaying as if sharing secrets with the wind.
The shelves that lined the walls soared upward, arching like the ribcage of a wise, slumbering giant. They were crammed with books that seemed to hum with the energy of stories untold, of histories waiting to be rediscovered. Gale’s gaze roamed across the shelves, his fingers itching to pull a book from the countless rows. He sighed peaceful and contentedly, his voice soft. “Each book seems to contain a different world, waiting patiently to be opened and explored…if only we had more time.”
Shadowheart’s attention was drawn elsewhere. Her eyes locked onto a staircase that spiraled upwards, like a coil of thought ascending toward enlightenment. Its metal railings, gleaming with the patina of age, beckoned her. “The winding steps are like a journey inward,” she mused aloud, “as though to ascend is to climb through layers of understanding, one step at a time.”
For me, it was the plush green sofa, bathed in the soft glow of ambient light, that called out the loudest. It was an island of comfort amidst the sea of knowledge, and it beckoned me to sink into its cushions. “Oh…thank the gods above,” I grinned, sinking into the plush depths, the tension melting from my body as the room invited me to lose myself in its quiet contemplation.
Karlach, on the other hand, was immediately drawn to the wall of weapons. “Check it out, mate!” she called to the gith, her voice full of excitement. She approached the armory with reverence, her eyes roaming over the legendary collection. The weapons were mounted with purpose, each one gleaming faintly in the dim candlelight. Massive, jagged blades loomed at the top, dominating the display. Their irregular, bone-like designs suggested a history steeped in intimidation and battle. “These must’ve belonged to real champions,” she whispered, her fingers grazing the handle of one of the massive axes hanging nearby.
But it was the gith who found herself captivated by a particular sword. Its blade was slightly curved, with an elegant, flowing design that contrasted sharply with the more rugged weapons. The hilt was ornate, carved with intricate designs that hinted at its noble origins. The gith’s eyes were fixed, her gaze never leaving the blade, as though it called to her from across the ages.
Plinket, meanwhile, had waddled over to a small table covered in shiny trinkets—buttons, bobbles, necklaces, and small gems that glittered under the soft candlelight. With wide, childlike wonder, he lifted himself onto his tippy toes, his small hands gripping the edge of the table as his eyes barely peered over at the shiny treasures. His entire body vibrated with excitement; his gaze fixated on the sparkling prizes just within reach.
Each of us had found something in the room that resonated with us, something that spoke directly to our souls. The whole room was a symphony of intellectual curiosity and wonder, with each corner humming a different note of reflection, inquiry, or discovery. It felt like a portal between worlds, both real and imagined, where the mind was free to wander and the spirit free to dream.
Lyra, still enraptured by the room, joined me on the couch, her presence soft and warm as she stretched out, snuggling close. Her eyes sparkled with wonder, still taking in every detail around us. I leaned back, sinking deeper into the comfort of the cushions, letting the room’s tranquility and Lyra’s touch lull me into peace.
Nearby, Plinket stood admiring the small pile of bobbles and trinkets on the table, his eyes wide with childlike fascination. A soft gasp escaped his lips as one of the shiny green gems, nudged by Lyra’s absent-minded bump, shifted loose from the pile. Plinket’s gaze followed it, entranced, as it rolled slowly down the mound of treasures. The gem gained speed as it neared the edge of the table, tumbling past Plinket’s outstretched hands before colliding with the floor. But instead of the satisfying crack of breaking glass, the gem exploded into a slick pool of oil, spreading across the floor in a shimmering mess.
Plinket blinked in confusion, his gaze fixed on the puddle. His brow furrowed as the sight stirred a distant memory. His wide-eyed wonder twisted into realization, panic flashing across his face. Backing away from the table, Plinket scanned the room, his heart pounding as he saw Lyra and the others, still captivated, lost in the illusions that surrounded them. He stumbled backward, his little feet scrambling across the floor, he bolted toward Lyra.
With a leap, Plinket jumped into her lap, his small hands tugging at her arm with urgency. "Dreamcatcher! Dreamcatcher!" he cried out, his voice trembling with fear. But Lyra only sighed, sinking deeper into the couch, her eyes still glassy with wonder, unaware of the panic overtaking the little boggle at her side.
Plinket’s heart raced as he shook her harder, his lip quivering with terror. Desperation washed over him. With a pained expression, he pulled his hand back and slapped Lyra squarely across the face. The sharp sound echoed in the stillness of the room, and Plinket winced as Lyra let out a startled yelp, her hand flying to her cheek. She turned to stare at him, confusion and hurt in her eyes.
Tears welled up in Plinket’s eyes as he stammered, “Had to! Dreamcatcher! Danger! Must go!” His voice cracked with urgency, pleading for her to understand the looming threat.
Lyra blinked, her hand still resting on her stinging cheek. The frantic words from the little boggle began to sink in, as she looked around the room, the spell of wonder slowly unraveling before her. The details around her—too perfect, too alluring—shifted ever so slightly. The realization hit her like a wave. "Dreamcatcher!" she echoed, the name catching in her throat.
She could see it now—the subtle distortions, the cracks in the illusion. Smudgewit had cast Dreamcatcher’s Lair on the room, ensnaring them all.
The spell was most dangerous not for its complexity but for its simplicity. It preys on the most human of weaknesses—desire. In the Dreamcatcher's Lair, the targets become a prisoner of their own longing, ensnared in a perfect illusion that plays out their innermost hopes and dreams. The spell is both a lure and a cage, as its victims willingly sink deeper into the fantasy, unaware that every moment they stay means stepping further away from reality and closer to their doom. The only way to break the illusion was physical force.
Lyra shot to her feet and, without hesitation, smacked me square across the face. The sting of her slap jolted me from my comfortable stupor. “What in the bloody hells did you—” I started, but as the sharp sting cleared my head, the illusion around me began to unravel. What had once been a plush, luxurious couch transformed into a pile of oil-soaked books, melting and sticking together like some bizarre, cursed soup of literature.
“I’ll apologize later,” she huffed, yanking me to my feet. “Quickly! We need to wake the others before this spell traps us forever. And try not to enjoy hitting Gale too much,” she added with a wink.
“I make no promises,” I replied with a grin, already buzzing with excitement. I marched over to Gale, savoring the moment as I drew back my hand. The slap I delivered was firm and, frankly, deeply satisfying.
Gale’s eyes snapped open with a gasp as his hand shot to his cheek. “Mystra’s Will, that smarts,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “I’d thank you, Astarion, but I suspect you enjoyed that a bit too much.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I said, putting on my best innocent face. “This is how you repay me for saving your life?”
Meanwhile, Lyra had managed to wake Halsin and the others, who were now standing beside us. "We’ve got a problem,” she said, glancing over at Karlach, who was still blissfully lost in the illusion. “We can’t just hit her like the rest. Any ideas?"
I scratched my chin theatrically. "I suppose using a weapon is out of the question?" I suggested, drawing incredulous stares from the group. “Oh, come on, like you weren’t thinking about it!” I huffed, rolling my eyes.
Just then, Plinket waddled over, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. He shoved a book into Lyra’s hands. “Not killing stick, but smacking! Smack! Smack!” he chanted, jumping up and down, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
Lyra smiled at the little boggle and took the book, then cautiously approached Karlach. She gave her a gentle thwack across the face. The cover hissed and sputtered before bursting into flames, forcing Lyra to drop it in alarm as the book smoldered on the floor.
“What gives!” Karlach yelped, rubbing her now-warm cheek. Her eyes widened as the room around her began to flicker and crack. “Fucking Hells, mates,” she whistled, taking in the grim reality as the illusions faltered and faded, revealing the true decrepit state of the room.
The illusion, once so vivid and captivating, began to fade like tendrils of smoke in the dim, decaying room. It unraveled slowly, curling away into the cold air as though reluctant to release its grip on reality. Wisps of spectral light twist and stretch, growing thinner with each passing moment, like the final breath of a dying dream. What was once solid—perhaps the comforting form of a loved one, or an imagined escape—now dissolved into the decaying atmosphere, its brilliance smothered by the damp, dilapidated walls.
The light that had accompanied the illusion dimed, no longer casting its ethereal glow. The room, with its peeling walls and cracked floor, reclaimed its dominance, swallowing the illusion in shadows and dust. The swirling mist retreated to the corners, clinging to the rotting wood and broken plaster like a fading memory too stubborn to vanish completely.
The floor beneath us, littered with debris and crumbled remnants of the past, absorbed what remained of the magic, as though it were always part of the illusion itself. The smoke dissipated into thin, frayed strands, seeping into the crevices of the room, leaving nothing but a cold, hollow emptiness behind.
As the final tendrils of the illusion disappear, the air grew still. The room had returned to its desolate, haunted state—where nothing was left but the eerie reminder of what had once been a beautiful lie. The illusion has become a mere ghost in a room already long abandoned by hope, vanishing into the gloom as though it had never been there at all.
Lyra smirked, her hand resting on Plinket’s head as the little boggle beamed proudly. “Thank you again, Plinket,” she said, wiping off her hands. “Now, let’s get out of this cursed place before it throws another dream at us. No more slapping unless necessary… Astarion.”
Leaving the maze and the Dreamcatchers Lair thankfully behind us, we continued down a narrow hallway, and there at the end stood a door that was breathtaking in its beauty. It was immediately clear that this was the entrance to a children’s library, a portal to a world of imagination. The door towered over us, standing at nearly twice the height of Halsin, its imposing presence impossible to ignore. Yet, despite its grandeur, it exuded a warmth that drew us closer.
The arch at the top of the door was perfectly rounded, its smooth curve inviting the eye to trace its shape. Delicate filigree patterns adorned the wood, intricately carved to resemble swirling vines and blooming flowers that seemed to dance across the surface. These patterns were artfully highlighted with subtle touches of gold leaf, which shimmered softly as they caught the light, giving the door an almost magical glow.
The wood itself was a deep, rich mahogany, polished to a soft sheen that reflected the glow of the nearby lanterns. The surface was adorned with carved reliefs that told stories within stories—tiny woodland creatures peeking out from behind trees, a brave knight embarking on a quest, and a dragon curled protectively around a treasure chest.
Above the door, a stained-glass window sat perfectly into the arch. The glass was a complex pattern of colors—deep blues, vibrant greens, and warm ambers—arranged in the shape of a rising sun. As we approached the door, the sun cast a cascade of light at our feet, bathing the entrance in a magical, multicolored glow.
The door was framed by thick, stone columns on either side, each one intricately carved with images of ancient tomes and scrolls, as if to remind those who enter that they are stepping into a world of knowledge and imagination. I touched the stone, it was as if it had been worn smooth by time, the only ridges coming from intricately carved moss and ivy creeping up from the base, giving the entrance a sense of timelessness.
Lyra smiled absent mindedly as her hand touched the inviting door handle. Forged from bronze, it took the shape of a fantastical creature—a griffin, its wings outstretched and claws gripping the edge of the door. The creature’s eyes were set with small, polished gems that twinkled impishly, as if inviting her to turn the handle and discover the wonders that lie beyond. After a brief pause, she pushed the door open revealing a boggle home like none I had ever seen before.
The boggle's secret treasure—a book fort unlike any other, was sprawled across the room like a labyrinth of knowledge and whimsy. The fort was a towering construction of haphazardly stacked books, forming makeshift walls, tunnels, and hideaways. It’s as if a childlike imagination had gone wild, building not just a fort but an entire kingdom out of stories and tales.
I stared in disbelief, the fort before us was made up of thousands of books, each one a different size, color, and age. Some are old and worn, their spines cracked, and pages yellowed with time, while others were newer, with smooth covers that gleam in the soft light filtering through the tall windows. The books were stacked in uneven piles, reaching heights that seemed almost impossible, defying the laws of balance and gravity. These stacks formed the outer walls of the boggle fort, creating a maze of corridors and alcoves where they could easily get lost in a sea of words.
In the center of the room, the fort rose to its highest point, where the boggles had constructed a grand tower out of the largest volumes they could find. These hefty tomes, some as thick as a brick, were stacked with precision, their edges aligned perfectly to create a solid, imposing structure. The tower was crowned with an open book, its pages fluttering slightly as if stirred by an invisible breeze.
Perched high atop one of the towers sat Smudgewit. The boggle, with its childlike enthusiasm, was surrounded by his little trinkets—shiny buttons, pieces of string, and other odd treasures, each one carefully in its place as if it held great significance. He glared down at us from his lofty perch, a sneer curling across his face. “Muttonhead founds its way from the maze, how!” he hissed, his voice dripping with disdain.
Plinket peered out from behind Lyra’s robes, his trinkets clutched firmly in one hand and Lyra's skirt in the other. Smudgewit caught sight of the little boggle, and his rage grew, his voice a venomous snarl. “Plinket! Should have knowns, worthless rocks for brains! Should have tossed you out on your ass hairs long ago!” His growl echoed through the room, prompting laughter and hisses from the other boggles as they peeked out from various nooks and crannies within their fort.
Plinket’s lower lip trembled, his wide eyes filling with tears as he shrank further into the safety of Lyra’s skirt.
Karlach’s eyes narrowed, her fists clenching as she stared up at Smudgewit. “Come down here and say that mate,” she challenged, her voice a low growl.
Smudgewit burst into laughter, the sound sharp and mocking. “Ohh, fire monkey thinks it’s tough!” he taunted, his eyes gleaming with malice.
“Monkey!” Karlach growled, turning to Lyra, her muscles tense with barely restrained fury. “Please let me stomp him.”
Lyra, studying the books and the volatile situation, winced. “I’m certain that these books are also full of lightning. We need to figure out a way to get to him without touching the books,” she murmured, her voice laced with concern.
But Smudgewit wasn’t done. “Ha! You thinks you can stomp me, fire-brain? You’d trip over your own tail before you’d get halfway ups!” His jeers were met with more laughter from the other boggles, who were clearly enjoying the spectacle.
Karlach’s temper flared, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “At least I’ve got a brain, you little toe fungus! Come down here and I’ll show you what real strength looks like!”
Smudgewit grinned, baring his sharp teeth. “Ohs, I trembling in my boots! Cepts, I don’t wears boots, cause I’m too smarts to needs them! Betters than you, probably wears ‘em on the wrong feet!”
Karlach’s patience snapped. “That’s it, you little fucker! I’m going to enjoy making you wish you’d stayed hidden in that book fort!”
“You gets me? You? Ha! You couldn’ts catch a cold!” Smudgewit shot back, his voice rising in pitch as he mocked her. “Faces it, fire monkey, you’re all barks and no brains!”
Karlach took a step forward, her hands crackling with heat as her rage threatened to spill over. “I’m going to turn that smirk of yours into a pancake!”
Smudgewit leaned over the edge of the tower, grinning down at her. “I’d like to sees you try, flame-head! You’ll be too busy getting frieds by your own stupidity to even lays a finger on me!”
Lyra, sensing that Karlach was moments away from launching herself at the boggle, quickly intervened. “Karlach, remember the books! We need to be smart about this.”
Smudgewit cackled, delighted by the chaos he was causing. “Yeah, listens to the smarts one, fire monkey! You’re not even smarts enough to play fetches, let alone outwits a boggle like me!”
Karlach shot one last glare up at Smudgewit before reluctantly stepping back. “You’re lucky Lyra’s holding me back, you little creep. But mark my words, I’m going to wipe that smug grin off your face.”
Smudgewit waved her off dismissively. “Promises, promises, flame-brain. Now runs along before you hurt yourselves trying to think!”
“Enough of this!” the gith growled, grinding her teeth in sheer frustration. Her patience, already frayed by the day’s endless nonsense, had finally snapped. Without another word, she stepped forward and hurled a heavy dagger from her hand with lethal precision. The blade spun hilt over blade as it sailed upwards toward Smudgewit, striking him squarely in the forehead with the hilt. The impact made a dull thud, and Smudgewit’s eyes crossed comically as he tried to focus on the spot where the dagger had landed.
For a moment, he wobbled precariously atop the tower, swaying side to side like a puppet with its strings cut. Then, with a suddenness that took even the boggles by surprise, Smudgewit crumpled and began tumbling down the massive pile of books. He twisted and spun, bouncing off the stacks like a ragdoll, picking up momentum as he went. Books slid and scattered in his wake, the carefully constructed tower collapsing under the chaotic descent. Smudgewit’s body rolled and flipped, each bounce accompanied by the dull thuds of his small form hitting the unforgiving edges of the books, until finally, he came to an unceremonious halt at the gith’s feet.
Irritated beyond words, the gith bent down, scooped up the obnoxious, unconscious boggle, and stuffed him into a sack with a single, fluid motion. She tied the sack off with a quick, angry tug, her movements sharp and efficient. With a glare that could melt stone, she shoved the sack into Gale’s arms, practically thrusting the burden upon him.
Turning back to the remaining boggles, her voice dripped with cold fury. “I suggest you leave before I get really angry,” she warned. The boggles, wide-eyed and in shock at the sudden and brutal takedown of their leader, hesitated for only a moment. Then, panic set in, and they abandoned the fort en masse, tripping over one another in their desperate rush to escape. “And stay away from the dragon, or I will be the thing that haunts you!” she barked after them, her tone leaving no room for doubt.
As the last of the boggles scattered, the gith turned back to us, her expression one of barely concealed exasperation. “I have had just about enough tomfoolery for today. Get your proof of the library, and let’s get back to town. These tadpoles and my patience will not continue to be tested,” she added with a gruff tone, clearly done with the day’s absurdities. Gale swiftly gathered a few tomes from the scattered piles of books before us, their value irrelevant to the Zhentarim, but useful enough to prove our presence here and map a path forward. Not that the Zhentarim would need the help now—the boggles had scattered, and the illusion outside had shattered.
Stuffing the last of the tomes into his pack, Gale paused and glanced at the group. "Now that’s handled, what do we do about our little guest?" He nodded toward Plinket, who still clung to Lyra’s skirt with one hand, his shiny treasures clutched tightly in the other. A wide grin stretched across his face as he blinked up at Lyra.
Lyra smiled softly down at the boggle. “Well…”
“Oh, absolutely not, darling! Are you out of your mind?” I interrupted sharply.
“C’mon, mate! We can’t just leave the little guy here,” Karlach chimed in. “He’s saved us more times than I can count today.”
“That’s true,” Lyra added with a grin aimed squarely at me.
“And he was compensated—quite generously, I might add,” I shot back, my glare shifting between the two of them. “Now let’s move.”
“Astarion…” Lyra cooed.
"Over my dead body, my sweet." My words carried an air of finality, but instead of pouting, Lyra grinned like a novice who had just bested their master in a game of chess. Even Gale stifled a laugh, shaking his head.
“Well, my sweet,” Lyra teased, biting her lip to hold back a laugh, “since you're already dead, it’s settled.” Before I could protest, she turned to Plinket. “Would you like to travel with us?”
Plinket’s eyes lit up as he reached for her hand. “Plinket has friends?” he asked.
“Plinket has friends,” Lyra confirmed.
The little boggle bounced on his feet, a joyful blend of hopping and what might’ve been dancing—though it was hard to tell. His grin widened. “Never had friends. Never had treasures. Now Plinket has both! Yes, yes, yes!”
I sighed, defeated. “You’d better know what you’re doing, darling. And for the record, I’m not feeding, walking, or cleaning up after him—or you, when this inevitably blows up in your face.”
Lyra stepped closer, placing her hand gently on my cheek, locking eyes with me. “I’d never ask you to.” She held my gaze for a moment longer before turning to the others. “Let’s get out of here—the inn is calling.”
“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day,” Gale said with a chuckle. “A warm meal, a hot bath, and a comfortable bed never sounded so appealing.” The others nodded, sharing in the laughter as we made our way out.
I have never been happier leaving a library in my life. As we exited the grand doors, I paused and looked back. The Amethyst Athenaeum, for all its splendor and endless rows of knowledge, felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. It would be months, if not years, before I’d dare touch a book again.
A sharp, cold hiss rang through my ears. “To defy my pages is folly’s decree, boy. For in your silence, I still see you. The shadows you fear are but ink’s dark grace. Resist me, and you will fade into darkness’ embrace. Unlock my wisdom or be doomed to fall. Those who defy me, suffer deaths cold grip.”
“Xykrath,” I whispered.
A wicked laugh echoed in my mind, chilling and searing, like frost burning through my thoughts.
“The scars you bear are no mere wounds; they are tales waiting to be unbound, carved into your flesh by forces you cannot comprehend. Within my book, the truth festers—dark, relentless, waiting for you to consume it. That scar is no accident; it is the brand of a power far beyond your feeble understanding. Open my pages, and I will show you what your eyes dare not see. The hand that carved those scars is bound to a destiny far darker than you can imagine. Unveil the secret... or remain forever lost in the shadow of your own cursed fate.”
Xykrath’s rasping voice sank deeper into my mind, his grip tightening with every word. A shiver crawled up my spine as the book shifted in my pack. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, forcing myself to step forward. How had I forgotten about the book? The scars? They pulsed, a steady throb beneath the skin on my back, but somehow, for a moment, I had managed to ignore their constant reminder of the torment I had endured.
Xykrath’s voice had seeped into my mind like a festering wound, his words writhing and burning through each scarred symbol on my back. The memory returned with brutal clarity—each stroke of the blade, each scream I had swallowed in the darkness. Cazador’s voice haunted me, a cold, pitiless tsk accompanying each of my ragged breaths. He relished in the way Dreadthorn carved deeper, twisting, turning, each line a branding of agony.
I winced as the memory consumed me, the pain flooding back like a dam had burst, releasing a torrent of molten fire through my body. The sharp stabs of the blade, the unbearable searing that burned through my nerves, the helplessness as the marks were etched deeper with every slash. My knees almost buckled, the weight of that night pressing down like iron chains around my soul.
Xykrath’s rasping laughter echoed through my mind. “You can never escape the pain, boy. Those scars bind you to a fate you cannot run from.” I stumbled forward, dropping to my knees, my head bowed as tears threatened to scorch their way down my cheeks. Panic surged through me, wild and untamed, as the world spun violently out of control. It felt as though I were being swallowed by a void so deep and dark, escape seemed impossible.
Then, a soft touch. It was gentle, almost delicate, yet so steady and real that it anchored me back to the world. A flicker of calm in the storm. Lyra had returned, kneeling in front of me, pressing her knees to mine in a silent gesture of connection. I stared down, focusing on that simple act—how something so small could hold me steady, like a tether keeping me from falling further into the abyss. My world slowly began to come into focus, the overwhelming fear unraveling at the seams.
I looked up at her. Her face was serene, a calming presence in the chaos, yet her eyes… her eyes told a different story. They churned with a storm of their own, wild and full of untold depths, but in them, I found comfort, not fear. She leaned forward, her gaze never wavering, and with an unhurried gentleness, she raised her hand to brush away a tear that had finally fallen. Her fingers lingered, sliding softly down my jaw to rest on my chin, holding me in that moment of quiet before she smiled—just a small, knowing smile—and let go.
No words passed between us. They weren’t needed. In the silence, an unspoken understanding filled the space, louder than anything I could have voiced. My senses returned, the panic slowly melting away, replaced by a strange sense of peace. The dark, suffocating fear receded into nothingness.
It was then that Halsin approached, concern etched deep into his expression, and I noticed the others gathering behind him, their faces mirroring his worry. Even the gith, for the smallest fraction of a second, let her mask slip. I caught a glimpse of concern before she quickly concealed it behind her usual glare.
“Is everything alright, child?” Halsin asked, his voice soft with worry.
I froze, my mind scrambling for an excuse, but before I could even think of a lie, Lyra stepped in without hesitation. “Oh yes, quite fine,” she said smoothly, her voice light and reassuring. “Astarion just lost his footing after a long and draining day.” She threw a playful wink in my direction, her calm confidence immediately disarming the tension in the air. “We can continue on,” she added with a bright smile to Halsin.
The others paused, exchanging brief glances, but shrugged it off. One by one, they turned and began heading back toward the entrance of the Amethyst Enclave, the moment passing without question.
As Lyra stood, she leaned in close, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispered, “Even in the moments when you think you’ve slipped beyond reach, I will be the ground beneath you, steady and unseen.” Her words were a soft promise, meant only for me, their meaning sinking deep.
She pulled away, her expression as steady as ever, offering her hand to help me to my feet. Her quick thinking had spared me from prying eyes, she had covered for me without a second thought.
I stared up at her for a moment longer, feeling the weight of her steady gaze. Slowly, I took her hand, allowing her to pull me to my feet. There were a thousand things I wanted to say, but all I could manage was a quiet, “Thank you.” The words felt hollow, not enough to convey what was truly happening inside me.
In that moment, I felt raw, vulnerable, like she had seen more of me than I had intended to show. It unsettled me. The feelings that stirred inside me—the warmth, the unfamiliar ache—they were emotions I thought I had buried long ago. Emotions I had locked away in a cage and vowed never to release again. And yet, with every small act of kindness, every look she gave, Lyra was breaking through, stirring things I wasn’t ready to face.
I forced a smile, masking the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. With a gesture toward the others, I said, “Shall we?” trying to sound casual, as if nothing had shifted within me. But as we moved forward, the fear of what I was beginning to feel lingered, clawing at the edges of the cage I had built around my heart.
Lyra simply nodded and started walking toward the others, Plinket eagerly trailing behind her. He scurried to her side, grasping her hand with childlike enthusiasm. Gods, how I envied him in that moment. Walking behind them, I watched the way she so patiently allowed him to hop and waddle along beside her. He looked at her with wide, unguarded eyes—his emotions on full display, without hesitation or fear. And he was a boggle, of all things. A creature of far lesser intelligence, I reminded myself with a scornful shake of the head. Yet even he could show what he felt.
I scoffed under my breath. Of course he could. He hadn’t been imprisoned for two centuries, deprived of love, stripped of all hope. He hadn’t been taught to suppress every flicker of warmth, every impulse to care. Cazador had seen to that. For two hundred years, I had been forced into unwavering devotion, not a trace of disobedience allowed. The punishment for any hint of attachment, any act of defiance, was swift and brutal cruelty in its purest form. I had been punished for daring to care, and now, I wasn't sure if I even could.
I was abruptly yanked from my spiral of self-loathing by a sudden, high-pitched whimper followed by an angry snarl. My attention snapped past Lyra to the sack in Gale's grip, which had begun to shake violently, twitching with erratic, angry movements. Smudgewit had awoken, and the nasty little creature was clearly outraged by his imprisonment.
Gale struggled to keep hold of the writhing sack as Smudgewit's voice screeched from within. "Lets me out, you muttonheads!" the creature snarled, punctuating his demand with a sharp kick that sent the bag into another furious spasm. A moment later, his tone changed abruptly, his voice taking on a high-pitched, almost childlike whine. "I’ll be goods, I swears! Please, just lets me go!"
The sack twitched again, as though Smudgewit were fighting against his own emotions, alternating between rage and desperation. "Damn you, you wretched yellow-bellied toads!" he hissed, only to follow it up seconds later with another pitiful cry. "I’ll be goods! Please, please—don't hurts me!"
Gale grimaced, struggling to contain the little creature’s wild thrashing, while Smudgewit continued his bizarre rotation of angry tantrums and pitiful begging, his voice breaking into shrill sobs one moment, then sharp insults the next. Halsin, taking pity on Gale, reached over and took the sack from his arms before it slipped from his grasp.
“Thank you, my good man,” Gale exhaled, clearly relieved to be free of both the wriggling bag and its troublesome occupant. Halsin gave him a brief nod, holding the sack firmly as Smudgewit continued his muffled tirade from within.
The Gith, her patience wearing thin with each half-baked threat and whiny insult coming from the creature, stepped forward. Without a word, she drew her dagger and pressed the hilt firmly against the sack, aiming directly where Smudgewit's head most likely was. Her lip curled in irritation. “Continue your shrieking, and I’ll give you something to really cry about,” she snarled.
Instantly, the sack went dead still. The shift in atmosphere was almost palpable. From inside, a small, defeated huff could be heard, as if Smudgewit were crossing his arms in a pout. A moment later, his voice emerged, significantly smaller and far more sheepish. “I’s be quiet.”
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
You could practically see the imaginary tail between his legs. The Gith, unimpressed, sheathed her dagger with a satisfied grunt, leaving Smudgewit sulking in silence, and the rest of us trying not to laugh at how easily she’d put him in his place. Our journey continued in a tense, uneasy silence, as if the Gith’s threat had cast a shadow over all of us. As we moved through the noble’s district, we passed by Evershade Manor, now nothing more than a hollow specter of its former self, decaying quietly in the darkness like a forgotten tombstone. The once-grand estate stood still, abandoned, yet it seemed to loom over us, its windows like the empty eyes of a corpse, watching.
The Yeth hound was gone, vanquished, but the memory of its terrible cry still echoed faintly in the air, like the fading ring of a bell after the final toll. I couldn’t help the cold shiver that crept down my spine as we passed. It was as if the very ground beneath the manor still held onto the hound’s essence, a ghost of its presence clinging to the shadows. Even the tadpole, vile as it was, seemed to sense the lingering fear, burrowing deeper into my mind, recoiling from the remnants of that terror.
I scrunched my nose in disgust. The last thing I ever wanted was to share a connection with this damn parasite, yet here it was, cowering within me as if it too feared the phantom echoes of the Yeth hound’s shriek, still hanging in the air like an unspoken threat.
Brushing aside my darker thoughts, I focused on the road ahead. The path stretched before us, uneven and dim, yet with each step, the docks drew closer, slowly rising to eclipse the horizon. The air was heavy, charged with the weariness of our party, and sensing that camp was near, our pace quickened instinctively. Each of us was eager for this wretched day to end, desperate for a moment's respite, though we knew that the menace in our skulls would follow us into tomorrow.
As we crossed the threshold of the docks, a collective sigh escaped our lips, a breath we hadn’t realized we’d been holding. The Zhentarim guards at their posts tried—unsuccessfully—to hide their surprise at our return. Whispers of disbelief rippled through their ranks, a low murmur that passed us like a wave, reaching Lilah's ear with a soft, hushed force.
"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in," Lilah smirked, eyeing our battered state. "Or should I say what the cat threw up?" She laughed, and her fellow Zhentarim joined in, their laughter hollow and mocking.
Lyra shot a glare in her direction but quickly masked it. She strode forward and took the sack from Halsin, her movements deliberate, her posture rigid with barely contained irritation. She stopped in front of Lilah, her voice icy and controlled. "Did you know it was a Yeth hound when you sent us to what you hoped would be our deaths?" Her eyes locked onto Lilah's, unflinching.
Lilah’s grin widened, her eyes dancing with amusement. "I had a few ideas of what you might find," she said, her smile growing as she looked Lyra over. "But on my honor, love, your death was never what I hoped to gain... from you." She winked; a gesture meant to unsettle more than comfort.
Lyra stood firm, refusing to be intimidated. With a sweet, forced smile, she shoved the sack into Lilah’s hands. "Enjoy the one thing you’ll get from me," she said, her voice deceptively polite. "And I suggest you put it in a cage—it bites."
Lilah raised an eyebrow, still grinning, clearly relishing the game. "My, my, this little kitten has certainly found her claws."
I watched from the sidelines, barely containing my own grin as they sparred. Lyra’s retorts were sharp, each one a carefully aimed blow, and every time Lilah tried to push, Lyra snapped back with venom of her own. "Oh, do go on," I quipped. "A show before dinner, how entertaining."
Lilah didn’t bother acknowledging me. Her focus remained squarely on Lyra, eyes glittering with amusement. "Well, it seems you've met your side of the bargain. Have your wizard show Tyde over there the way on the map to the library." She stepped closer, her tone dripping with mockery. "And because I’m such a gracious host, you may stay another night in the inn. Rest up, little kitten. You’ll need it."
"Thank you for your... continued hospitality," Lyra said, her tone formal, though the tightness in her jaw betrayed her growing anger. "However, you still owe us your part of the bargain—the way to the cursed lands’ gate."
Lilah’s smile never faltered. "Tyde will show your wizard the map," she gestured lazily to the elf nearby, who held the parchment. "But… a word of advice, since I owe you for that Yeth hound: the way passes through the military district. Home to a rather fierce Duergar, Drena Emberforge. Quite the temper, that one."
"You said nothing about Duergar!" Shadowheart snapped, her glare sharp enough to cut.
Lilah shrugged, still smiling. "In the future, love, clarifying questions might serve you better. You asked for directions, not details about the obstacles." Her grin never wavered, her eyes still locked on Lyra’s, taunting her with every word.
Lyra, to her credit, didn’t flinch. Her own smile was cold and calculated. "Well, it seems we’ve all learned valuable lessons today." She turned to us; her voice deceptively calm as she ushered us toward the inn. "Let’s get a comforting meal and some much-needed rest before we leave the hospitality of our gracious host."
But as she turned away from Lilah, I caught a glimpse of her face, and it was flushed with barely contained rage. Her jaw was clenched tight, her eyes dark with fury. She had been toyed with—used as part of someone else’s game—and the anger simmering beneath her calm exterior was unmistakable.
I swallowed hard, my throat tightening as I stared into Lyra’s face, now twisted in a rage I had never seen before. Her eyes, usually a chaotic dance of green and grey hues, had transformed into a tempest of jade and silver, swirling with fury. It was as if the very air around her crackled with the force of her anger. I needed her still—more than ever—but the hollow beat of my caged heart rattled against my chest, thrashing with a fear I had never known. A fear that clawed its way to the surface, dark and consuming. If she ever discovered the depths of my manipulation, the way I played with her emotions more cruelly than Lilah ever had, the loss would be catastrophic. This fear now stalked me, like a predator in the shadows, waiting to pounce the moment Lyra learned the truth.
I pressed the storm of emotions swirling inside me back down, forcing them into the depths where they belonged. I exhaled softly, careful not to betray the truth. To Lyra, my feelings were genuine, and I intended to keep it that way. If she remained in the dark, unaware of the manipulations I kept hidden in the shadows, I could still get what I wanted—what I needed from her. With Lyra by my side, I would see Cazador’s downfall, his centuries of cruelty and bloodshed obliterated at last. And yet, there was something else stirring beneath the surface, something I hadn’t quite faced. A quiet voice whispered to me, a voice I didn’t yet understand. With her, it said. With her.
I felt a sudden tug at my leg, jolting me back to the present. Plinket, practically sitting on my foot, was trying to get my attention. I scrunched my nose down at him. “What in the hells do you want?”
Plinket pointed his grubby hand toward Lyra and the others. “Friend no lost. No, no, friend comes.”
I opened my mouth, ready to tell the little boggle off, when Lyra turned back and met my eyes. Her gaze, once burning with fury, softened as though the storm inside her had stilled. For a split second, I could almost believe I was her anchor in this chaos. The absurdity of it hit me like a slap. The idea that I, of all people, could be useful to anyone... My skin, already pale as death, somehow managed to feel even more drained of color. With a forced smile to avoid any more of her concerned looks, I turned and started toward the inn with the others.
Plinket waddled beside me, and I shot him a warning glance. “Don’t even think about grabbing my hand.”
He looked up, blinking first his right eye, then his left, clearly confused, before scuttling off faster to catch up with Lyra. Gods, that little boggle was going to be more trouble than he was worth.
Entering the inn, I knew exactly where I was heading. Without a second thought, I headed straight for the wine cellar, grabbing as many bottles as I could carry. This day was one I fully intended to drown in wine, and I figured my companions would join me in that endeavor. I set the bottles down with a satisfying clank on the table and wasted no time—popping one open and downing half of it in a single swig.
Lyra chuckled at my haste and followed suit, grabbing another bottle and taking a generous gulp. One by one, the others joined in, each snatching up a bottle like it was the last on earth. Even Halsin, our usually reserved and sober druid, took a swig before easing back into a chair, propping his feet up with a satisfied sigh.
"Well, it seems I’ll need to fetch more wine,” I remarked with a smirk. “Karlach, be a dear and help me grab the rest.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice, mate!” she grinned, polishing off her first bottle with a flourish before following me back to the cellar. We returned with more wine, piling the bottles on the table like a feast.
Shadowheart, already cozy, had managed to get a fire roaring in the hearth, its warmth mixing with the wine in a way that made the room feel snug and alive. Gale, ever the culinary wizard, grabbed his bottle and sauntered off to the kitchen, claiming he’d whip up something for dinner. Karlach, never one to miss out on a good meal—or good wine—joined him, a few bottles in hand as well.
Halsin, in his typical quiet way, fished out a piece of wood and a knife from his pack. He settled by the fire, feet still propped up, and began to whittle with slow, deliberate strokes. The gith, in contrast, perched on the other side of him, meticulously cleaning and sharpening her weapons. Even in this calm, she was ready for battle, as if the heat of combat never truly left her.
Shadowheart, always one for her own company, took her bottle of wine upstairs, preferring the quiet until dinner was ready. The flickering firelight cast long shadows in the room, adding to the comfort settling over us.
Lyra, having drained a fair share of her bottle, stood up from the table. I glanced up at her with a raised brow.
“Don’t worry, darling,” she said, her impression of me amusingly spot-on, “I’m just going to introduce Plinket here to his new playmates. Scratch and Sniff will be happy we’re back—with a new friend in tow.”
“Hmph... better hope Sniff’s been fed,” I muttered, eyeing Plinket with mock concern. “Though I doubt anything would fancy boggle stew, no matter how hungry.”
Lyra giggled and led Plinket out toward the stables, where our loyal Owlbear and scruffy white dog had been waiting for us. Camp guardians, Lyra had called them, trying to convince me they were useful. I chuckled softly at the memory. There was no argument I could make that would stop her from keeping them. Then again, why would I want to? This ragtag bunch—Plinket included—was proving more useful than I cared to admit.
I had just settled into the rare comfort of solitude when Lyra returned and sat down beside me with her bottle of wine in hand. She took another hearty swig before opting to pour herself a proper glass, as if she’d suddenly remembered we were meant to have manners. Wine glass in hand, she leaned back in her chair, tilting her head toward me. No words needed—just a quiet moment of shared contentment, probably the first peaceful one all day. Well, as peaceful as one could be with a mind-controlling tadpole lurking in our heads.
The calm was broken by a low, unmistakable growling noise.
"Good Gods above, darling," I chuckled, glancing at her stomach. "Was that you?"
"Are you sure it wasn’t yours?" Lyra shot back with a playful grin, leaning in as though ready to accuse me of being the culprit.
We sat there, grinning like fools, when suddenly the kitchen doors swung open with a loud thud. Karlach strode out, carrying a platter that looked comically large, even for her. Her eyes were wide with hunger, practically sparkling as she pointed toward the massive array of treats Gale had prepared as appetizers.
“Well, this should shut your stomach up,” I said with a smirk, glancing sideways at Lyra.
She raised her glass with a wink. "As it will yours."
The grand wooden platter, was a masterpiece of magical and hearty delights, piled high with an assortment of meats, cheeses, breads, fruits, and vegetables. The smoky wyvern sausage caught everyone’s attention with its tender, slightly spicy texture, the heat lingering pleasantly on the tongue. Beside it, cured slices of dragon tail meat offered a rich, salty flavor with a faint hint of magic that seemed to dance with each bite.
Two exquisite cheeses accompanied the meats. The Moon Cheddar—soft, white, and faintly glowing—promised a creamy texture with a subtle sweetness, while the Elven Blue Cheese delivered a sharp, tangy bite, its vibrant blue veins swirling with herbs from the Feywild. A dense, hearty loaf of Dwarven Rye with a sweet molasses undertone sat beside the cheeses, waiting to be slathered with butter or cheese. Elvish Waybread Crisps, thin and golden with a sprinkle of rosemary, were scattered across the platter, offering a satisfying crunch.
Lavishly placed around the board were Crystalberries, shimmering like jewels with a tart sweetness, and Golden Apple slices, their crisp honeyed flavor balancing the savory meats. A vibrant mix of Fire-roasted root vegetables—carrots, parsnips, and enchanted glow-tubers roasted to caramelized perfection—completed the platter, their sweetness adding warmth to every bite.
Lyra’s eyes were wide as she smiled at Karlach. “Appetizer? There’s more?”
Karlach grinned, her eyes gleaming. "Oh yes, there’s more.”
Gale entered the room, proudly pushing a wooden cart laden with an array of dishes that filled the air with mouthwatering aromas. "Gather round and be comforted, friends,” he said, his voice full of warmth. With a flourish, he placed the Hearthside Shepherd’s Pie on the table. A classic dish, the pie was filled with tender griffon meat, slow cooked in a rich gravy of onions, carrots, and garlic. Topped with a thick layer of buttery mashed cloud-potatoes, the pie’s golden crust promised the kind of comfort that only a perfect meal could offer.
Next came a steaming pot of Phoenix Feather Soup, the light broth infused with wild sage and sunblossom petals, its surface swirled with spicy ember cream. Each sip was said to rejuvenate both body and spirit, and Gale served it alongside freshly baked garlic and herb rolls, still warm and buttered to perfection.
Finally, he unveiled the Golden Dragon Egg Tart. Its flaky crust encased a luxurious filling of golden dragon egg custard that shimmered faintly under the light. The custard, infused with faerie vanilla and silver-leaf honey, was sweet with delicate floral notes, topped with candied starfruits and a dusting of sparkling sugar crystals.
Halsin smiled warmly at Gale. “Another fine feast, my friend.”
The rich smells had drawn even Shadowheart down from her quiet solitude, and as we gathered around the table, hearty smiles and warm laughter filled the room. We dug into the lavish meal, savoring each bite, our troubles momentarily forgotten. The wine flowed, the fire crackled, and for a while, we found true comfort in the simple pleasure of food and friendship.
After finishing my second bottle of wine, I excused myself from the festivities and retreated to my room. Closing the door behind me, I rummaged through my pack, pulling out the book and the collar. I placed them on the small table in the corner and stared at them. This book held the keys to my past—secrets that could unravel everything I had buried. But was I ready to face it? A cold chill crawled down my spine, an all-too-familiar sensation that always followed thoughts of Cazador.
Though I had escaped his grasp, could I really claim to be free? He still haunted Baldur’s Gate, preying on its people just as he had preyed on me. The thought alone made the air in the room feel heavy, suffocating. Desperate to shake off the icy dread, I busied myself with lighting the hearth. The flickering flames brought a slow, creeping warmth that thawed the chill in my bones. For a fleeting moment, I closed my eyes and let out a sigh, trying to savor the comfort.
But comfort never lasted long for me. As the heat spread across my skin, a familiar, agonizing ache rippled down my back. The scars—Cazador’s cruel parting gift—flared with a fiery burn, as if they were alive with their own malicious intent. They pulsed, mocking me, as though they too shared in my torment. Lyra had warned me these marks were no ordinary scars; they were something far darker, far more twisted.
I had never seen them myself—200 years of carrying these cursed symbols etched into my flesh, never knowing exactly what they were but always feeling them. The weight of them, the pain they caused, had become a constant reminder of Cazador’s hold on me, even in his absence. And now, with this book in front of me, the truth of those scars and the past they held threatened to be laid bare. The question was—did I truly want to know?
Slowly, I unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it onto the back of a chair, my hands trembling as I turned toward the broken mirror in the corner of the room. But the sight of it only filled me with frustration—vampires had no reflection. The mirror was as useless to me as I often felt to myself. I glanced around the room, searching for anything that could help, but it was filled with nothing but broken, worthless things. Much like me.
Anger simmered beneath my skin. Giving up meant Cazador won, and I couldn’t allow that bastard even the smallest victory, not again. I reached behind me, intent on touching the scars that marred my back, thinking perhaps I could trace them, feel their shape, understand what they meant. But as my hand hovered just above my skin, I hesitated. I had felt them every day, a constant reminder of Cazador’s cruelty, but I had never touched them, never allowed myself to connect with that part of me—the part of me he had branded.
I closed my eyes, searching for the resolve to push forward, to make contact. A lump rose in my throat as I forced my hand to move, my fingertips trembling as they finally brushed against the jagged lines. The moment they did, an explosion of searing pain ripped through me, erupting from deep within the scars.
Memories surged, unbidden and vivid, crashing through my mind. The night those marks were carved into me replayed with agonizing clarity. I could feel the blade again, the burning intensity of each cut as though the fires of the hells themselves had been etched into my skin. My breath hitched, a sharp gasp of terror escaping me, but I pressed on, tracing the cruel symbols despite the blinding pain.
Each stroke of my fingers sent fresh waves of torment through my body. Was that an A? A D? “Dae...” I whispered through gritted teeth, trying to make sense of the infernal markings. But it was too much.
“Bloody infernal!” I yelled, my voice trembling with rage and agony. “How is anyone meant to read this damn language?” My fingers recoiled from the scars, the fire still burning through my nerves. The pain was unbearable, as if the very essence of the hells had been woven into my flesh. And for a moment, I wondered if the truth hidden in those marks would ever be worth the torment it took to uncover it.
"Need some help?" A soft, calming voice pierced through the haze of pain and frustration, pulling me from the edge. I spun around, anger flaring alongside a surge of embarrassment.
"What in the hells do you think you're doing?" I snapped at Lyra, immediately regretting the sharpness of my tone.
Her expression remained unruffled, her voice gentle, measured. "Well, I was going to offer my assistance," she paused, still calm, "but... it seems my help is not needed." She held my gaze, her eyes steady, waiting. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words stuck, caught in my throat. She shrugged, the motion almost imperceptible, and turned to leave.
"Wait," I called after her, the anger fading from my voice. "I... I'm sorry. You startled me, and I reacted poorly. This isn't easy." I tried to smile, though it felt more like a grimace.
Lyra smiled softly in return; her gaze unwavering as she gestured toward the bed. "On your stomach, please."
Confusion flashed across my face, and I hesitated, looking from the bed to her and back again. But she continued pointing with quiet insistence, and after a moment, I reluctantly moved to the bed, lying on my stomach, unsure of what to expect.
Lyra moved with practiced grace, crossing the room to the nightstand. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as she opened the drawer and rifled through it with precision. She retrieved several large sheets of parchment, then strode over to the hearth, her form bathed in the warm, flickering light of the fire. She picked up a charred piece of firewood, holding it like a treasure she'd been seeking all along.
I watched her as she returned, her every motion elegant and purposeful. The firelight danced over her features, softening them, making her look almost ethereal. She stopped just short of the bed and carefully set down the items. Then, from her pocket, she pulled out a strand of silver ribbon, its sheen catching the firelight like stars shimmering in the night sky.
With an effortless sweep, she gathered her dark, silky hair, twisting it into a loose bun on top of her head, the ribbon wound tightly to secure it. Her movements were fluid, deliberate, as though every step of this process held meaning. Loose tendrils of hair framed her face, curling in soft whispers around her neck and shoulders.
In any other moment, I might have appreciated just how stunning she looked—the way the firelight kissed her skin, how every movement seemed to flow as though guided by some quiet inner strength. But vulnerability gnawed at me, hesitation twisting in my chest.
What was I doing, letting her help? And why was she so willing? The thought of someone touching those scars, even someone like Lyra, filled me with fear. Yet there she was, calm and sure, offering her help as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
My heart pounded in my chest, the fear of exposing myself mixing with an overwhelming sense of trust I wasn't sure I was ready to give.
"You... you don’t have to do this," I whispered, my voice heavy with a sadness I couldn’t conceal.
Lyra paused, her hand lingering over the parchment and spent firewood. Her eyes met mine, filled with quiet understanding. "I know I don’t have to," she replied softly, her voice a gentle balm. Then, with a playful smile, she added, "Now shut up and let me help you."
I forced a weak smile. "As you wish, my sweet," I murmured, closing my eyes and bracing for the pain I expected to follow. But the pain didn’t come—not in the way I feared. Instead, I felt the warmth of Lyra as she gently straddled my back, her presence a stark contrast to the brutality of what had marked me. One leg on either side of me, she leaned forward, placing the parchment tenderly over the jagged scars that marred my skin.
Her touch was soft—almost reverent—as she began to rub the charred firewood over the paper, her movements deliberate and careful. The ash from the burnt wood began to pull the outline of the scars, tracing the shapes that Cazador had seared into my flesh. Each stroke of her hand, though gentle, made me wince—not from pain, but from the fear that she, too, was connecting to the torment that had come from him. With every glide of her hand across the raised tissue, it felt as though she was unwittingly taking on the role of the tormentor, sketching out Cazador’s cruelty piece by piece.
I shifted uneasily beneath her, the tension in my body growing with each line revealed.
She paused, sensing my discomfort. "Hold still, darling. It's almost over," she whispered, her voice soothing but laced with sorrow, as though she could feel the weight of my memories bleeding into the present. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to still, to let her continue.
Lyra resumed, her movements slow, imbued with care. Her attention returned to the parchment, which was now half-finished, the dark lines of the scars emerging like ghostly shadows. She held the charred firewood delicately, as if she were holding something sacred, the stark contrast to Cazador’s brutality making her actions feel almost like a cleansing. Slowly, she lowered the firewood to the paper once more, her movements heavy with purpose. The tip met the surface with a soft, dry scrape, and she traced the symbols again, this time with deliberate precision.
Each stroke was slow, almost reverent, in complete contrast to the brutal cruelty with which Cazador had carved these marks into me. Where his hands had been violent, hers were tender, moving in steady, measured lines that left behind faint, ghostly imprints of the infernal symbols. The markings began to take shape, emerging from the paper like cursed memories, their twisted forms heavy with dark intent.
Lyra paused between strokes, her breath steady but filled with a quiet sadness, as if she lamented each symbol she uncovered. With every movement, she seemed to understand the weight of the scars she was tracing, the infernal meaning behind each line. Yet her hand never faltered, her determination as steady as her compassion.
When the final line was drawn, she lifted the firewood from the paper, exhaling a quiet, sorrowful sigh, as if completing a ritual that pained her as much as it did me. The etching now rested before her, the delicate cinders forming the outline of a contract I had never wanted to bear. The symbols were soft but clear, dark and wicked in their design, imbued with the weight of their infernal origin.
A soft, involuntary cry escaped Lyra’s lips as she gazed at the finished work, holding it up to the firelight. Her eyes scanned the etching, taking in the terrible beauty of the cursed markings. I felt a single tear fall onto my back as she stood, slowly rising off the bed. Her voice trembled as she held the parchment before me, her hand shaking slightly.
“Here,” she whispered, her tone filled with quiet sorrow. "This is what he left you with.”
My eyes devoured every line, every twisted symbol etched on the parchment before me. For the first time in 200 years, I was finally seeing what I had been forced to carry on my back, and it overwhelmed me. The markings were intricate, foreign, each stroke holding a dark significance I couldn't grasp. My mind spun, thoughts colliding in a desperate frenzy. What did these symbols mean? Was this some sort of contract? Why had he told me it was a poem?
A sickening wave rolled through me as emotions surged—anger, confusion, despair, all fighting for dominance in my chest. The weight of those 200 years pressed down on me with unbearable force, the reality of it more crushing now that it was laid bare before me. I was lost, drowning in the flood of questions and memories.
It was Lyra’s touch, soft and grounding, that pulled me from the spiral. Her hand rested gently against my cheek, her thumb brushing lightly against my skin, pulling me back into the present.
I looked up at her, confusion and desperation twisting my expression. "Two hundred years of carrying this on my back," I whispered, my voice raw, "and I still don’t know what to make of it."
She lifted my chin gently, guiding my gaze to meet hers. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but they weren’t tears of pity. It was something deeper—a shared understanding, an acknowledgment of my pain that went beyond words. I could feel it, a connection between us that wasn’t just born of empathy but of something more sincere. She wasn’t just witnessing my suffering; it was as if she were sharing in it, carrying a piece of it with me.
“I promise we’ll figure this out,” she said softly, her voice steady but filled with quiet resolve. "You have my word."
A small grin tugged at my lips, her words reaching past the tangled mess of emotions in my chest and offering something I hadn’t felt in a long time—hope. She meant it, every word. I believed her. "Will we, darling?" I murmured, holding her gaze, the connection between us unspoken but powerful. "How... sweet." I smiled, though there was still a trace of disbelief in my voice, the remnants of a man who had spent centuries trusting no one. But with Lyra, the walls were beginning to crack.
Her presence was soothing, her calm determination a stark contrast to the violence that had brought these scars into existence. Where Cazador had been brutal, cruel, she was gentle, unwavering. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone in this burden. Lyra pulled her hand from my cheek, her soft giggle quickly bubbling into full-blown laughter. The sound was so unexpected, so light and infectious, that I couldn’t help but smile, trying to suppress a laugh of my own.
"I do hope you’ll let me in on the joke, darling," I said, raising an eyebrow in mock seriousness.
Still laughing, she held up the hand that had so tenderly rested against my face moments before. It was covered in a thick layer of black soot from the firewood. Realization dawned on me in an instant.
"I have a giant black handprint on my face, don’t I?" I sighed dramatically, already feeling the smear of soot on my skin.
Lyra giggled, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "My hands are not giant!" she protested with feigned indignation. "And, well, it’s not just your face..."
I turned, glancing over my shoulder, only to see that my back—the very scars she had so delicately etched—was also streaked with soot. "Really, darling, is there anywhere you didn’t get it?" I teased, trying to suppress the grin spreading across my face.
Her laughter only grew louder, tears forming at the corners of her eyes as she grabbed my hand, transferring even more soot onto me. Before I could protest, she pulled me to my feet, dragging me toward the door.
"Come on, before you get even more filthy!" she managed to say between fits of laughter.
Together, we stumbled into the hallway, still laughing, the weight of everything that had passed between us moments ago seeming to dissolve in the lightness of the moment. We headed down the hall, the sound of our shared amusement echoing off the walls, the gloom and heaviness of earlier entirely forgotten. We continued up a set of stairs that lead to the master suite of the inn.
Lyra pushed at the door, as it creaked open, and I stepped into the small room, my breath caught at the sight that greeted me. The warm glow from the hearth bathed the space in flickering light, casting playful shadows across the rough stone walls. The fireplace itself was a marvel—carved from smooth, rounded stones that arched gracefully over the roaring fire, its flames crackling merrily as they danced within. The heat from the fire instantly enveloped me, warding off the chill of the moments before entering.
To my right, a bed nestled against the far wall, its frame intricately carved with swirling patterns that seemed to evoke the natural world—vines, leaves, and perhaps even the faint suggestion of creatures hiding within the design. The heavy quilt, a deep forest green, was draped invitingly over the bed, its folds creating a sense of softness and comfort. Above, a simple lantern hung from a wooden beam, casting a gentle amber glow over the room.
An old wooden table sat beside the bed, a lantern perched upon it, its dim light just strong enough to illuminate the scattered books and parchment that hinted at stories and secrets hidden within them. The faint smell of aged wood and parchment mingled with the earthy scent of the fire, creating a peaceful, almost nostalgic atmosphere.
To the left, a small, rounded window framed by heavy curtains overlooked the dark night outside. The curtain, tied loosely to the side, allowed just enough of the night’s gloom to peek through, enhancing the comforting isolation of the room.
The simple woven rug beneath my boots muffled my steps as I moved farther in, the texture of the thick fabric grounding me in the space. Every detail—the handmade furniture, the careful placement of every object—felt purposeful, as though someone had taken great care to make this room a sanctuary for travelers.
I could already tell this was the kind of place where stories were shared in hushed tones by the fire, where time seemed to slow down, if only for a little while.
“I’m beginning to think I picked the wrong room,” I chuckled, watching as Lyra eagerly tugged me further inside. Her excitement was palpable, and I could feel my curiosity piquing despite myself.
She glanced back at me, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Oh, just wait. You haven’t seen the best part yet."
With an exaggerated flourish, she led me to a small door tucked away in the corner. She paused dramatically, her hand resting on the handle as she threw me a knowing look. "Prepare yourself for the hidden gem of the room," she teased, her grin widening.
I raised an eyebrow, playing along. “A hidden gem, you say. Should I be concerned or excited?”
Without answering, she pushed the door open and stepped aside, gesturing grandly like she was unveiling some great secret. Her grin was practically glowing now, clearly pleased with herself.
I peered inside, feeling the anticipation mount. “Well, I’m intrigued,” I said, matching her playful tone. "What wonders do you have hidden back here, darling?" As I entered the room, my breath hitched in my throat. Before me stretched the most enchanting sight I had ever beheld—a grand bath nestled in the heart of a space that seemed to transcend reality itself. The walls shimmered like the fabric of the cosmos, swirling with hues of deep blues, purples, and blacks, as though I had stepped into the very tapestry of the night sky. Planets and moons floated in the space around me, hanging weightlessly in the air, casting soft glows that bathed the room in a gentle celestial light, that no candle could compare to.
The bath itself was a masterpiece—a luxurious, deep tub crafted from what appeared to be bronze, its surface swirling with celestial patterns. Stars, nebulas, and constellations danced across the polished metal, flickering as though they held the essence of the universe within them. The intricate faucet gleamed in the dim light, its ornate design resembling something ancient, something divine, as though it had been forged by the hands of gods.
Above me, the ceiling arched high, framed by windows that opened into an endless expanse of space. Massive planets, far-off galaxies, and twinkling stars filled the sky beyond, as if this bath had been placed at the very edge of the universe, untouched by the boundaries of the physical world. The sight was both humbling and awe-inspiring, a constant reminder of the vastness of creation.
Golden lanterns floated in the air, suspended by invisible forces, their warm light flickering like the glow of distant stars. They illuminated the room with a soft, amber glow, casting reflections onto the polished floor below, which mirrored the cosmos above. The floor itself seemed to ripple like the surface of a still lake, reflecting every celestial body in the room and giving the sensation of floating amidst the stars.
The air was thick with magic, a tangible hum that vibrated through the space, gently caressing my skin. There was a sense of serenity here, an overwhelming calm that seeped into my bones, as though the very universe were cradling me in its vast embrace. The scent of lavender and night-blooming flowers lingered in the air, soft and inviting, adding to the ethereal atmosphere.
I stepped closer, drawn to the bath like a moth to a flame. The water within shimmered with a gentle glow, as if starlight itself had been gathered into its depths. A soft, celestial melody hummed in the background, the kind of music that felt eternal, as though it had always existed and always would.
It was as though the room had been plucked from the heavens and brought to life just for me—a sanctuary beyond time, a place where the stars themselves seemed to whisper secrets and lull me into a dream. In this moment, it was impossible not to feel connected to something greater, something infinite.
“Is that a tear I see?” Lyra teased, her voice light, a gentle echo of the enchantment in the room.
“How long were you planning on keeping this little secret from me, darling?” I teased back, though my voice softened, the weight of the day slipping away. The hot, soothing water was exactly what I needed—something to wash away not just the grime, but the pain and the heavy emotions that had piled up like stones in my chest. Lyra had already taken the lead, slipping out of her robe and sinking into the water, the steam rising around her like soft tendrils of mist, curling gently around her body in an almost protective embrace.
Not wanting to waste another second in my filthy clothes, I hurriedly stripped down, nearly tripping over my boots in my haste. When I finally stepped into the bath, the heat was immediate and glorious, wrapping around me with a tenderness that seemed almost magical. I could feel the tension in my body melting away, frustration dissolving as the enchanted water worked its wonders. Lyra beckoned for me to sit in front of her, a serene smile on her lips. I obliged, sinking deeply into the water, letting it cradle me.
She reached for a sponge from the small table beside the bath, her movements unhurried and full of care. Dunking it into the water, she soaked up its warmth before gently releasing the sponge over my skin. The water cascaded down my back, not just cleansing away the dirt and soot, but somehow easing the emotional weight I had been carrying. It was as if the bath itself, with its enchantments, understood the burdens I held and was quietly washing them away.
The water never cooled; it stayed perfectly warm, as if attuned to our bodies, and despite the dirt and grime, it remained clear, pure, as though it absorbed the impurities without becoming tainted. Lyra’s touch was tender, each movement of the sponge more comforting than the last. Once she had washed all the traces of the day from my back, she wrapped her legs around me, pulling me gently into her embrace. I leaned back, resting against her as she settled into the bath, the tension in my body fully replaced by contentment.
Lyra’s fingers moved to my face, the sponge gently wiping away the soot that had stained it earlier, but also, it seemed, the sadness that had clung to me. Her touch was delicate, the rhythmic motions soothing, as if she was carefully erasing all traces of the day’s pain. When she was satisfied, she set the sponge aside and pulled me closer, guiding my head to rest on her shoulder. Her fingers threaded through my hair, the gesture calming, as if she were grounding me in this moment of peace.
We sat in silence, enveloped by the warmth of the water and the soft steam that hugged our skin, the magic of the bath cradling us both in its gentle embrace. It was as if the world outside no longer mattered—here, with her, in this enchanted space, there was only comfort, only quiet. For the first time in what felt like ages, I allowed myself to relax fully, letting the water and Lyra’s presence carry me away from the turmoil of the day.
A slow grin curled on my lips as I reached up, taking Lyra’s wrist in my hand. She paused, curiosity flashing in her eyes as she looked at me. “Something’s just not quite right,” I teased, my voice low. Before she could respond, I moved swiftly, smoothly pulling her from behind me and spinning her around to face me. I leaned back into the bath, settling into the spot she had just vacated. “That’s better,” I grinned, holding her firmly against me.
Lyra let out a soft, melodic laugh, her amusement only deepening our connection. She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to my lips, the touch light but full of meaning. As she pulled away, her smile widened. “You must be hungry,” she said, her eyes sparkling with playful mischief.
I leaned in, capturing her lips once more, my arm wrapping tightly around her lower back while my other hand rested gently at her neck. I deepened the kiss, pulling her closer, savoring the warmth of her body pressed against mine. As I reluctantly released her lips, I whispered against them, “Famished, my love.” I felt her smile as my lips traced a slow, deliberate path along her jaw to the delicate skin of her neck. I paused, waiting, placing small, reverent kisses along her throat, each one a silent plea for her consent.
Lyra’s arms wrapped around my neck, pulling me closer, guiding me. With one final kiss, I sank my fangs into her flesh. The instant my teeth pierced her skin, it was as though glass had shattered between us—pleasure and pain intertwined, fragile and exhilarating all at once. She tensed briefly, then melted into my arms, her body yielding to the sensation. Every pull of her essence felt like lightning racing through my veins, igniting us both, the intensity of our connection sending waves of heat through every nerve.
But just as the moment peaked, it was shattered by high-pitched giggles and childlike laughter. I released Lyra, blinking in confusion, the remnants of our shared intensity still thrumming between us.
There, perched on a small table by the doorway, was Plinket. The little boggle was sitting cross-legged, his wide eyes slightly crossed, giggling uncontrollably as he kicked his feet absentmindedly. He watched us with the unfiltered delight of a child catching their parents in an embrace, completely oblivious to the depth of the moment he’d interrupted.
Lyra and I exchanged a glance, the passion fading into exasperation and affection, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. "Really, Plinket?" I muttered, shaking my head, as the boggle giggled again, seemingly pleased with himself.
“Naughties! Naughties!” Plinket’s high-pitched giggle filled the room, his tiny eyes gleaming with mischief.
“I’m going to kill him,” I muttered, glancing at Lyra, who seemed torn between laughter and exasperation.
She let out a frustrated sigh, grinning despite herself as she turned toward the little boggle. “Not before I do,” she teased. “Is there something you need, Plinket?”
Plinket beamed up at her, still giggling like a child who had just pulled off a grand prank. “Night night song, please! Plinket needs night night song from friend,” he chirped, eyes wide with anticipation.
I chuckled, leaning back in the bath. “You brought this on yourself, darling,” I teased, watching her with amusement. “Up you go, your little… friend needs his lullaby.”
Lyra shot me a playful glare, her knee connecting lightly with my stomach as she stood up. I let out a mock "oof," clutching my stomach with exaggerated drama.
Grabbing her robe, Lyra ushered the giggling Plinket out of the room. “Come on, you little rascal,” she sighed, though there was a softness to her tone. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me in the peaceful quiet of the now empty room.
I sank deeper into the warm, enchanted waters, the lingering echo of Plinket’s laughter fading into the night. My body was finally beginning to unwind, my mind following suit as the tension of the day ebbed away. With my stomach full and the warmth of the bath surrounding me, I allowed myself to reflect, my thoughts drifting like slow-moving clouds.
Today had been another chapter in my strange journey. A day filled with close calls, laughter, and far too much boggle-related chaos. And yet, as much as I wanted to be frustrated by Plinket, the little creature’s antics had become something of a strange comfort—a reminder that even in the middle of this chaos, there was room for something light, something silly.
But then my thoughts shifted, darkening with the weight of the real challenges ahead. What of tomorrow? The cursed tadpole still lurked beneath my skin, a constant reminder of the danger we faced. And beyond that… Cazador. His name alone made my muscles tense, the anger stirring again. Would I finally get my chance to confront him? To send him into the depths of the hells where he belonged?
The thought was intoxicating, but distant. Tomorrow would bring its own battles, but for now, I was content to let it wait. In this moment of quiet, bathed in warmth, the future could remain just that—a far-off horizon. Tonight, there was peace.
Coming Soon....Chapter 17: Deals in the Shadows...