This was not the glorious day Nevalle had dreamed about in his youth.

When they had heard the news from Crossroad Keep, of the fall of Highcliff, they had known that they could not stand by and let the threat growing to the south continue to encroach on their lands. War had been inevitable – Lord Nasher had simply chosen when to act, not how. They had gathered together the Greycloaks, the Many-Starred Cloaks and as many volunteers as they could – and volunteers were flooding in from the refugee camp outside the city, knowing that food came free with military service. This was especially true with those survivors of Highcliff now arriving from Crossroad Keep, almost doubling the numbers camped outside the walls of Neverwinter – which was already struggling to feed them in this dreadful winter.

It had taken only three days for the army to set out with Nasher and the Nine at its head; the city had been ready for war for a long time, and even before that it had never dared lets its guard down with the constant threat of Luskan. Now, at the dawn of a new day, the forces of Neverwinter formed up on the hills overlooking Highcliff and the dense smog of corruption which had crept that far north, a dark, impenetrable cloud that had turned the world within to permanent night.

Waiting in his full battle raiment on his horse by Nasher, Nevalle should have felt proud. This day should have been glorious. The lord of Neverwinter was beside him, after all, astride a huge horse, both he and the beast armoured in heavy golden plate mail, his greatsword shimmering on his back, his blue cloak streaming out around him in the wind roaring up the cliff to their right from the Sea of Swords.

The army itself was an undoubtedly impressive sight, even with the poorly armoured recruits in their piecemeal plate and leathers, holding a mismatched array of halberds, longswords and axes. They looked determined, and fierce – all of those volunteers, most refugees from the Claimed Lands, knew what they faced best of all. They had chosen to come back and confront it once more. As well as these admirably brave men there stretched the army proper along the hills, arcing a little around the abandoned town below, almost stretching out of sight to the east, and to the north. The priests of Lathander, waiting in formation directly behind Lord Nasher, shone in their pink-gold plate, their lacquered shields decorated with colourful mosaic sunbursts. It would be them, and the Many-Starred Cloaks in the lines behind them, who could sway this battle against the undead.

But looking down the hill at the darkness beyond, smelling the stench of death on the air, Nevalle knew this could not be glorious. Narrowing his eyes against the biting wind, he could make out the forms moving in the fog; shambling, twisted. Amongst them drifted less clear, shadowy figures, darker even than the blackness of the smog, and he could see all of these shapes with increasing frequency the longer he watched. These had once been men and women – and children, he realised, seeing some smaller forms approaching through the smog as well – and he would take no pleasure in killing them. They had died in enmity to the master who now controlled their bodies. Sir Nevalle prayed to Tyr that their souls had found rest while their bodies had not.

As the sun rose, the dead came. It broke the laws of all necromantic magic, but the Neverwintans had feared as much. This was different, fed by a power beyond a part of the Weave. The King of Shadows had a great mastery over the Shadow Plane, and it would seem he was channelling the powers of that different plane of existence and twisting the fabric of Toril's Prime Material Plane to his own ends.

They came in vast numbers, moving steadily, still half-seen, but it seemed that the fog cleared just enough for the waiting army to see what they faced, to make them know real fear, and set their armoured bodies to quaking. Miles of the dead came, slowly, inexorably, but not in any formation of any army Sir Nevalle might have expected to fight. His heart pounding, his eyes wide with a fear he had never imagined he would feel, he turned to look at his lord, to see Nasher staring steadily down at the hordes approaching. Nasher did not seem to feel fear, and his expression was one of calm resolve. Nevalle tried to take strength in that, but still his voice sounded high and panicked to his own ears.

"My lord!" he cried, "It is as if all the dead of the Mere walk. There are miles of them."

"Then we shall make a road of their bodies," Nasher responded through clenched teeth.

The Lord of Neverwinter looked ahead for a moment more before glancing at Sir Nevalle, sending the younger man a nod, as if to express his understanding of his fear…and to impart his own tenacity. Wheeling his horse about to face his army, unsheathing his mighty greatsword with just one arm to lift it over his head, Nasher raised his powerful voice to address them all.

"The enemy comes! They are men who have died once, and they will die again. We are more than their match. They know nothing of courage or honour – they have no loved ones to fight for. The gods are with us – brothers and sisters all, standing side by side against death. Know that all of Neverwinter stands behind you. Let us remind them of death and send them to the Hells!"

At his signal, the charge began, the battle cries of thousands of men rising into one long, deafening roar, and Nevalle led the Neverwinter Nine at the army's head, formed up around their shining lord. This was not a glorious day, but he had never been more proud to fight for Neverwinter, a city which dared face fear incarnate…and swoop down upon it with steel drawn. The battle cry was more for the communal strength of camaraderie that it instilled upon the men, for the dead could feel no fear. Sir Nevalle found himself joining in regardless, almost laughing wildly from the realisation that the time had come. Neverwinter was at war, and this battle at Highcliff was surely only just the start.

…she asks for you every day. Please come to us, Brother. Our Lady does not have long left, and I know in your heart you will regret this if you do not see her at the last. She says she sees a dark shadow waiting for you in your future if you do not come to us, and there is a red hunger closer at hand, torn asunder long ago and now slowly reforming, an evil as ancient and dangerous as the shadow it fights. We beg you, come to the Seer before she dies. Do you not still love her as you once did? We wait in the Promenade of the Dark Maiden. You know the way. She smiles as I write…she knows you will heed me.

The letter, written in the Drow script and the preferred ink of the Underdark which only showed up in infravision, weighed like a stone in Mae'rillar's hands as he watched Neeshka and her companions riding back in through the gates. Even from this distance, through the misty window of their house's bedroom in the keep's main bailey, with the glaring sunlight burning at his sensitive eyes, he could see her relief. For all of her complaining, she did have some form of grudging friendship with Qara, at least – both were young, though the Tiefling rarely showed it. But it was not a surprise to see her looking so tired of the company she had been keeping. It made the Drow feel even more guilty that he would not be able to stay and keep her company. He would be abandoning her to them again without Isaviel to cheer her.

"I have no choice," he sighed softly, crumpling the letter in his fist and turning away from the sight of his returning lover before she inevitably looked for him, knowing he would be standing at that window.

The letter had been waiting on his table the night before, and as soon as he had seen it he had understood that he had no choice. There was no way they would have dared to contact him, not after everything, and he could not refuse a goodbye to the one he had come to know as the Seer. Attacked in a Drow raid near the holiest of Eilistraee's temples? The thought of it made him shake with rage, and once he had read the words he had known that he could not let it stand. He had to go.

Mae'rillar did not allow himself to look back, pulling his pack on over his cloak, covering his head with his deep hood. He was a master of stealth, trained in the treacherous Underdark, where one wrong movement and one audible step could result in swift death. He had expected to be leaving for Neverwinter, not Waterdeep, but the information the Guild had sent him no longer seemed so important. Neeshka would have to find someone else to deal with the problem. Past love called him elsewhere. So instead he would be returning to the City of Splendours after almost ten years away. And it had been even longer since he had needed to pass through Skullport.

He strode to the back door quickly, intending to head straight for the northern wall, where he could slip over the edge easily, and it would take only a little more effort to get below the overhanging ridge of the cliff there to climb unseen to the ground. He knew that if he told Neeshka his reasons for leaving, and why he would not be returning any time soon, she would be angry and unhappy…and she would also try to go with him, or to stop him. Neither option was one he would take.

With a shake of his head, Mae'rillar opened the back door of the house he had shared with his Tiefling companion and stepped out into the bright white glare of the snowy Frozen North. At least he would not have to suffer the cold or the sunlight for much longer. Not for some time, anyway.

"Forgive me, sweet Neeshka," he whispered into the howling wind, wrapping his dark cloak about him and stepping away into the snow.

Khelgar had complained loudly when first Bishop had brought their current mounts to them. The ranger had pointed out that he could have much more easily acquired the horse for him and Isaviel without going to the effort of 'stealing' the pony for Grobnar and Khelgar as well. Whatever he had said to the Dwarf after that had led to a sudden cease in complaints, but Isaviel had not heard, taken over by a new fit of agony.

The Moon Elf had only vague memories of the escape from the Mere; Bishop had slung her over his shoulder and run, Karnwyr bounding ahead, and she had watched Khelgar dragging Grobnar with him through the swamp behind them. They had not had time to even consider burying Elanee's body before the shadows and the shambling forms had begun to close in on the Circle's glade. Through the smog they been only just visible, but the darkness, the shrieking and the smell that came with them had been warning enough.

When she had awoken that night she had found herself wrapped in Bishop's cloak as well as her own, by a campfire, hidden under a natural alcove of stone several miles north of the Mere. Apparently once they had outrun their suspiciously half-hearted pursuers and reached the High Road there had been no further attempt to catch them by the minions of the King of Shadows.

That was the night that Bishop had brought their stolen mounts – Isaviel did not care where he had got them, because she understood the severity of the situation. There was no way they could be certain that they were truly safe, not unless they made all haste for Khelgar's Ironfist home in the Sword Mountains. To add to that, such proximity to the Mere seemed to have had a worryingly debilitating effect upon Isaviel, as if the foul magic in the air had become concentrated upon the shards she carried, particularly the piece in her chest. In such a weakened state, when Akachi's curse had begun to twist and seethe inside her she had not been able to even begin to control it, and it had opened up her old scar.

Though the effects of the Mere dwindled as they rode over the next few days, the damage had already been done. Bishop had helped her bandage her scar as best as possible – because, he claimed, he did not want to have to be responsible for her as her condition worsened. She had just smiled knowingly at him, because she had seen the concern in his eyes even if he did not know he had felt it himself. The bruises on her neck from the strangling branch were spectacular, but at least over the three-day ride her initial rasp had become something more akin to her original voice.

On the third night Isaviel had been strong enough to get down from the horse unaided and was able to sit up against a bare, windblown tree while Khelgar built the fire and Bishop stalked off with Karnwyr to try to find them some food. Grobnar sat hunched up by the fire, the thinly falling snow settling in his messy blonde hair, tears trickling down his cheeks as he strummed a plaintive little tune on his lute. He remained like that, staring out to the north into the darkness, towards the soaring arc of the great Sword Mountains though they were invisible by that time of night so late in winter, even once Bishop had returned and Khelgar had shown surprising skill at stew-making.

As if sensing the expectation of some small semblance of camaraderie once they were all gathered around the fire to eat, Bishop did not stay long and preferred to prowl the perimeter of the camp with his wolf. Isaviel watched him for a while until Grobnar's sniffling turned into sobs.

"C'mon lad," Khelgar groaned, squeezing the Gnome's shoulder with an expression caught somewhere between fear and pity, "Ye cry like that in these parts, at this time o' year, an' yer tears might just freeze. Best not, lad. She wouldn't want ye cryin' like that over 'er."

"She refused to fight with us," Isaviel pointed out, and was surprised by how cold her words sounded to her own ears, and even more surprised by the flush of shame that showed in her cheeks.

She could still see the fallen form of Elanee on the ground, remembered it even beyond her own pain. The druid had all but betrayed her…but how kind had Isaviel ever bothered to be with her? Lying there on the Mere ground she had looked so frail, so thin and young, barely more than a girl with prettily freckled cheeks and sad, sad eyes. It's my fault. Isaviel bit her lip against the tears that stung in her eyes at that realisation.

"I just…I just don't understand," Grobnar was saying, his voice high and threatening to break as he looked over at Khelgar with wide, teary eyes, "What happened to Shandra and Lady Elanee…they were so good, and so kind. They only did what they thought was the best thing, and now they're dead. It doesn't seem fair."

"It's not fair," Isaviel admitted, inching over to the Gnome now and awkwardly patting his arm, trying to show that she felt guilty about her harsh words, and because it was her fault, so terribly her fault, "And…I'm…sorry."

Khelgar looked at her in wonder when she said those words, and she felt a little stab of regret when she spoke them. She had not meant them, not really. But both of her current companions were not looking at her with reproach, but rather with kindness and respect. That just embarrassed her more, especially when Grobnar let out a little sob and threw his arms around her, telling her she didn't need to feel so sorry, that it wasn't her fault. But it was, and she just patted his head a few times and then extricated herself from the Gnome, dragging herself to her feet and leaving the scene of woe for Khelgar to deal with, since he had shown himself far more capable than her.

"I think I might just stab you all for being such pathetic little crying bastards," Bishop grunted when Isaviel reached his side, not responding when she unconcernedly wound an arm around his waist.

"Yes, Bishop. Of course you will," the Moon Elf sighed, staring out at the jagged, looming shape of the Sword Mountains without really seeing them, still feeling inwardly a little shaken by Grobnar's impulsive hug, in spite of her attempts to look unbothered.

"Of course I will," Bishop agreed gruffly, looking down at her with that typical sneer of his, rolling his eyes and turning away again when she raised a doubtful eyebrow at him, his arm settling around her shoulders casually, like it did not mean anything.

In truth, she needed the support. Though she could stand and walk unaided now, she was still weak, and pain shot through her chest with every breath. For all his poorly hidden concern in the Mere, Bishop was hardly a candidate for confiding in about matters of physical weakness. She let him know what he had to, nothing more. That thought made her miss Sand. Khelgar's impulsiveness, Grobnar's foolishness, Bishop's cruelty…it all made her miss Sand. Me? the wizard had asked, those tendays ago, I am too restrained. She smiled fleetingly at the memory. She missed his little house in the docks as well.

"Whatever it was that had you so defenceless in the Mere, it had better not happen again," Bishop noted, subconsciously pulling her to him tighter in spite of his next words, "Because if it does, I won't save you again."

"I know," Isaviel told him softly, closing her eyes at the strange combination of emotions and sensations.

The strength of his arm around her was comforting, as was her hold on him, keeping him there against her, but his words were both disappointing and unsurprising, mingling with the discomfort caused by the shard in her chest. She frowned in frustration with herself then – who was she to care about such things? She chose to bed him those months ago. She chose to keep him with her when she could have pushed him away with ease, and she had let him wheedle his way into her expectations and her most untrustworthy emotions. He had never changed, and it was no surprise that he would emphasise his lack of loyalty to her just as it was completely expected that he hardly bat an eyelid at the fall of Elanee.

That was the reason she needed him, more than anything, the Moon Elf realised. She needed him with her, especially then, now that she was well enough to reflect on the druid's death, because he would not care, and he would tell her so if she asked. It dulled her own emotions, and only through that emphatic effort not to care could she continue unconflicted. There was no room in her life for regret or sadness, because every day could easily be her last. And this man who held her, who subtly angled himself against her so he could rest his chin on the top of her head, could well be the bringer of that death. Subconsciously Isaviel touched her free hand to the hilt of Lord Halueth Never's sword and smirked to herself – she would have to be ready, in that case, and she had better be prepared to kill him first.

"You look like you're plotting something," Bishop remarked, which made her laugh aloud.

"Oh, really? And you can see me, can you?"

"I can feel you smiling," he growled against her ear, sending shivers down her spine as she turned her head against his.

Bishop's lips found hers with a hungry urgency that made her smile wickedly, his arm looping around her waist and dragging her to him when she kissed him back. She very easily forgot about Elanee then, allowing herself to think only of his strong body against hers, his lips hot against hers. It was as if he was a poison and a cure to all her ills, allowing her to forget about that which she dare not remember, forcing her to rage and hate where she should not.

"By the Hells," the ranger gasped against her when they pulled apart, both glancing momentarily at their oblivious companions sat by the fire nearby, "What have you done to me?" His brown eyes looked angrier than ever when they met her gaze, but she knew that open anger was less dangerous than silence with him.

"Whatever it is, it's not my fault," she told him softly.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop…smiling like that," he hissed, pressing her against him in the closest he would ever come to an embrace, staring back out into the darkness over her head.

"I think you like it when I smile like this," Isaviel countered, reaching up on tiptoes, almost sighing with the relief of the moral obligations drifting away.

When Bishop looked down at her again he was grinning uncharacteristically, his hold on her waist just a little too hard. But that was all just a part of the necessity, of all those things about him that she needed to release her from her duties for a little while, long enough that she could bear their weight again later.

"Yes, I like it," he admitted, watching her lips for a few moments before looking into her eyes, "And by the Hells, I swear you'll get me killed one day looking at me like that."

For all his implications that she was distracting him, as soon as they heard the distant clank of mail, Bishop pushed Isaviel from him without a second thought. Startled, the Moon Elf drew her blades automatically, glancing around the dark world, visible to her nightvision in greys and blacks. Eventually, she saw the source of the sound, following Bishop's gaze as her guide. She wondered how it was that she, who was normally far faster to respond, had taken so long to notice the approaching band. It had to be due to her debilitated state, and that was a problem.

The ranger was staring resolutely into the darkness as if he could see through it, at the path a few metres up the grassy rise beyond them, where the trail began to curve up the mountain ahead, arcing out of sight behind the lowest peak. There was an orange light flickering not too far away, bobbing as it grew brighter, and after a moment of peering, as her eyes adjusted, Isaviel could see the broad, armoured forms of Dwarves, several bald and all of them bearded, one carrying a banner of a mailed fist, another the torch.

"A delegation come to welcome their beloved Khelgar home?" Isaviel suggested with false hope, grinning up at Bishop when he showed her how he held his bow in his hand, "They won't just kill us, warmongering ranger."

"Perhaps. Better to make sure they don't have to by doing it for them," Bishop suggested, but he lowered his bow.

"Haha!" Khelgar fairly roared as the band of Dwarves approached up the road, leaping to his feet and rushing out to meet them, "Khayar! I'd know that beard anywhere!"

"Khelgar," the blonde Dwarf holding the banner at the front of the arriving soldiers greeted with a deep frown and narrowed eyes as he and his company of ten arrived just within the light of the campfire.

He hardly looked pleased to see Khelgar, staring at him hard when the latter approached and clapped him on the armoured shoulder with a broad grin. Isaviel watched this unbalanced interaction with unease, approaching slowly behind her Dwarven friend with Grobnar trailing confusedly in her wake. After a moment Karnwyr came bounding up to her side once she stopped a few steps away from the patrol, who were watching her and her companions closely and mistrustfully. Could they have come all this way to be rebuffed by both the allies they had sought?

"What brings ye here? Ye hardly left on good terms," Khayar noted coolly, but there was something else in his deep voice, and a sad look in his pale, deep-set eyes, "Keros hates ye, Khelgar. He's yer younger brother and ye left 'im when he needed ye most. We all needed ye."

"What?" Khelgar spluttered – the genuine surprise on his face was indicative to Isaviel of just how serious a faux pas he had made. The worse the error, the less Khelgar knew about it.

"I feared as much. Yer pride took ye from us, and in yer pride ye did not hear o' the fall o' yer father, our king," Khayar did at least put a comforting hand on Khelgar's shoulder when the Dwarf faltered and gasped in surprise.

"How?" Khelgar roared, and Isaviel turned to glare at Bishop when she heard him sigh in exasperation.

"He went after the belt yer forebears lost so long ago, at Mount Galardrym. Yer father and his band were slain by th' leader of th' Fire Giants. In yer absence, Keros is our king now. Has been fer many a month."

"Wh…but…" Khelgar spluttered in horrified confusion for a few more moments before gritting his teeth against his evident sorrow, forcing his emotions from his face and standing straight again, "Why would 'e do that? Th' hammer's been lost for as long as th' belt. Can't use one without the other n' all that."

"We uncovered the hammer," Khayar said simply, a pleased shine in his eyes at the implications that clearly came with that information, "But as ye say, none can wield it without th' belt."

"That's….that's the weapon o' me ancestors. I'll not let some thick-skulled giants keep the heirloom o' me house!" Khelgar exclaimed now, "An' I'll avenge me father in the same strike."

"Perhaps, Khelgar," Khayar appeared as doubtful as he sounded, looking past him to Isaviel. Karnwyr snarled again and bared his teeth, "This is a strange band ye bring with ye. An Elf, a Gnome and a human man?"

"Right. Well…" Khelgar looked around at Isaviel now, and with a start she realised he expected her to introduce herself. Was he not a prince amongst the Ironfist? But she stepped up to meet Khayar and his patiently waiting band all the same.

"My name is Isaviel Farlong, Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep," she slung her crimson cloak over her shoulder to show them the symbol of Neverwinter emblazoned there, "And I come in person to ask your clan for allegiance against the threat rising in the Mere." She could not help but wince against the pain in the gash on her chest when she threw her cloak back again, aware as well of the rasp in her voice.

"Knight-Captain, ye say," Khayar grunted, and something a little like admiration came into his eyes, though he paused a moment before offering to shake her hand, "Ye might be an Elf, but ye're a tough one, lass…lady…" he seemed momentarily at a loss, as if fearing if he had made some social error, but Isaviel just smirked, so he carried on, "Either way, we won't leave ye t' the cold out here. We can't rightly refuse a noble o' Neverwinter a place by our hearth, definitely not in times like these. Ye look to be hurt something terrible, lass. I'll have the priests see to yer wounds."

"I…thank you," Isaviel nodded in surprise at his change of manner – a glance at Khelgar showed her that her Dwarven friend looked significantly abashed.

"Forgive me, Khayar. I could'nt 'a known," he said eventually, and his fellow Ironfist sent him as stern a look as he could muster.

"It's not me ye should fear t' face, me prince. Tis Keros," he turned to his men now, who jumped to clanking attention, "Off we go lads! Let's take this company here to meet our king."

As it turned out, Crossroad Keep was an easy castle to run. Kana was a far more efficient lieutenant than Isaviel gave her credit for and the recruits were respectful and well organised. Everyone went about their duties at their proper times and in the right way. It seemed rather incongruous, really, given how Isaviel loved to feign indifference towards the place's welfare – until Sand had looked at the carefully kept records of the keep's affairs which the Moon Elf had left with him. She had looked a little embarrassed as she handed it over, and he found that highly amusing. For upon seeing the apparently dull collection of numbers, tables of guard rotas and lists of responsibilities, the wizard had never been more proud of Isaviel. She might have written it as untidily as possible, as if to remind herself that she 'did not care' but she had still proven that she understood the importance of her task. She was an unwilling leader, and an even less willing taskmaster, but she still did what she had to in the end.

How, then, would Isaviel Farlong take to the latest development in her previously orderly keep? Sand wondered this when his midnight meeting with Ammon Jerro, Zhjaeve, Qara and Aldanon in the library had been interrupted by Neeshka. The Tiefling had burst through the door of the library, a room brightened with the white light of a simple cantrip, her face a mask of horror, her movements jerky and furious as she stomped over to Sand's seat at the far end of the table.

"He's gone!" Neeshka exclaimed, her high voice reaching new boundaries of piercing, "Mae'rillar. He's just….gone!"

"Now is not the time for personal drama, Tiefling," Ammon Jerro growled wearily, rubbing a hand against his tattooed forehead in palpable – and rather immediate – frustration before gesturing towards the large shard of silver gleaming on the table, its central red stone glittering in the light.

"I don't care what you think, warlock," Neeshka snapped right back, "Just because your personal drama includes killing your own granddaughter doesn't mean this isn't important."

Ammon met her wild pink gaze with a stare of cold grey fury, hinting at hitherto unseen levels of malice.

Sand sighed. This should have been a simple meeting. But the warlock's patronising response belied his lack of understanding, and it made the half-Elvish wizard heartily relieved that Isaviel had left him in charge, after all.

"He's like that, isn't he? I always thought he'd leave as soon as he had an excuse," Qara sounded a little too condescending as well, like she was copying Ammon's tone. Her adoration of the warlock stopped just short of sycophancy, fortunately, but she still stared at him with a little too much awe whenever he spoke, and she still giggled a little too enthusiastically at his witless jibes at Zhjaeve.

"Know that Neeshka is right to be unsettled," the Githzerai put in now, looking with surprisingly sympathetic eyes towards the Tiefling before turning to speak to Sand, "Mae'rillar Kilath will not be returning to Crossroad Keep."

"And how would you know, Gith?" Ammon demanded sharply.

"It is obvious for those who task themselves with careful observation of others, Jerro," the Githzerai responded with as much obvious derision as she ever deigned to give.

"Oh, my," Aldanon's tone, and his innocent wide eyes were unnervingly reminiscent of Grobnar, "Well that sounds awfully poorly timed. Needless to say that he must have had some very good reasons."

"Yeah, like saving his own skin," Neeshka spat derisively, waving a piece of apparently blank parchment in her hand before dropping it on the table in front of Sand, "That's all he left behind. Isaviel's going to be furious."

Her eyes were glistening with tears, but she balled her fists and refused to shed them. Sand offered her a sympathetic look, but when she ignored it, he turned to regard the others seated around the table, steepling his hands in front of him and watching in silence. There was an art to this. It was important to appear in control, but it was just as important to let these rather volatile individuals speak their minds before making a decision.

"It's a blank piece of paper," Qara shrugged, half-grinning when she looked up at Neeshka, "It looks like he's mocking you, Neeshka."

"No," Ammon Jerro shook his head, and with a single ringing word of power dispelled the light cantrip, plunging the room into darkness.

Both Qara and Aldanon were beginning to complain until they saw the strange letters glowing from the page on the table. The warlock took up the letter and read it carefully, his frown visible thanks to the glow of his tattoos, before recasting the cantrip and bringing forth light once more. He looked across the table at Neeshka without a hint of pity and sent the letter skittering towards her over the polished wood between them.

"The Promenade of the Dark Maiden. It is a haven of Eilistraee close to the Underdark harbour of Skullport deep beneath Waterdeep. He will have found a path to the Underdark by now and will be well on his way there."

"Then there is nothing we can do," Sand admitted, though Neeshka huffed angrily and folded her arms, "His position was always voluntary, and Isaviel has always been careful to keep his role as an additional one, not a…necessary one."

"Very well," Ammon agreed dismissively, nodding towards the marvellous shard glittering at the centre of the table, "Then let us discuss matters which are truly important."

Neeshka, furious as she was, could not do anything more and simply stood and watched, blinking away her tears. Sand sighed again, and tried not to imagine Isaviel's various potential responses when she would inevitably find out. Somehow, he doubted she would be as angry as Neeshka expected. Angry for her friend…unsurprised for herself. Whatever had pulled Mae'rillar away to Skullport would undoubtedly have done the same for her in his position. She would likely forget his betrayal as quickly as he would.

"You are certain this is the final shard?" Sand asked of Ammon and Zhjaeve, glancing from one to the other, still uncertain of who had more knowledge in the matter.

"Yes," they answered in unison, looking at each other distrustfully across the table with an equally simultaneous glare that made Qara snort in amusement. Sand hid his own smirk and eyed Ammon Jerro suspiciously instead.

"You say you wielded this sword before, and I cannot disbelieve you. But how can you possibly know about forging it again? When you possessed it, it was already whole, correct?"

"It was," Jerro admitted, a curiously unsettled look flitting across his bearded face, "But I have infernal sources beyond your comprehension, wizard."

"Of course, that's power you'd never even come close to understanding, Sand," Qara tossed her head theatrically, those always-just-too-angry green eyes glittering with dangerous mischief when they met his glare.

"Ah, the ever underwhelming and altogether outdated practice of belittling alchemy and enchantment for the overrated, and often ill-advised school of conjuration," Sand clapped his hands in sarcastic applause, "I could enchant that silly little necklace of yours, the one you wear in honour of your fire god, to choke you with a wave of my hand. And no amount of your conjured fire could ever burn through my spellshields in the time it would take you to die."

That silenced the girl, and when he looked back at Ammon Jerro, the warlock was looking at him with a slight half-smile. That look was so out of place on the man's face that Sand decided never to chide Qara in front of him again. He did not want praise from a man who killed his own granddaughter.

"So, infernal sources beyond my comprehension, you say?" the alchemist inquired coolly now, "By which you mean 'Mephasm'."

"Yes."

"Hmm. Indeed," Sand nodded, keeping his tone business-like in spite of the strand of cool dread that twisted around his heart. It seemed the warlock had a habit of giving away 'too much' information. Just as he had made it so easy for Isaviel to summon the fallen Deva in the first place.

"This raises an important question," Zhjaeve put in now, "How did you know where to acquire the sword originally? Do you know how to reforge it?"

"I do not," the warlock admitted, fairly grinding his teeth, "If I could I would tell you, but…you are right to ask me. I was too busy being detained on the lower planes after the battle with the avatar of the King of Shadows…and have had little time since to discover how the blade was broken, and thus how to reforge it. My…sources have been less than informative on this matter as well. But there is a place populated by those who have had much time to consider it, and they know the King of Shadows better than any of us could ever hope to. They dwell guarded by the ghost of one of his great enemies, an ancient dragon whom he fought in the distant past, shortly after the fall of Illefarn and at the beginning of his madness. Nolaloth was – and is, in a manner of speaking – the great wyrm's name, and their battle spanned the planes. Nolaloth was defeated, unfortunately, but he had already put the King of Shadows on a collision course with the Githyanki in the Astral Plane by that point, and hence gave our Prime Material Plane a long and welcome reprieve from his destructive powers.

"Nolaloth was struck down, but his spirit remained chained to the ghostly remnants of those who created the King of Shadows, who was once their 'Guardian'. They are all that is left of Illefarn, doomed in their guilt to linger in the ruins of that lost civilisation's capital, Arvahn, with their ghostly sentinel. Nolaloth was their mercenary, you see, and they chained him to Faerûn until such time as they could heal him, but they died before this could be achieved, linking themselves to the life-force which binds him as well. It is likely they know of how to reforge the sword, at least in theory. They have had long enough to consider such things, after all."

"And why're you telling us this now?" Neeshka demanded in the silence that rang in the library after this revelation, "Why didn't you tell us sooner, when Isaviel was here or something?"

"Esmerelle's daughter would demand more of me than answers about the sword of Gith. Suffice to say that I have suffered enough guilt in my life to bother myself with reliving my most shameful act before I must."

"What in the Hells is that supposed to mean?" Neeshka snapped, but the warlock just raised his voice and spoke over her, as if she were not even there.

"As for acquiring answers from the ghosts of Illefarn and Nolaloth, they have little reason to help me, as we parted on unfriendly terms those three decades ago. Your…Isaviel will undoubtedly have to go to Arvahn to consult with them, but I cannot go with you. Be warned: Nolaloth had many red dragons in his service when last we met, and over the years his fame only grows amongst such dreaded creatures. It will be a sign of your 'mighty leader's' real power if she can go there and survive such threat."