Apologies for the delay; but the next chapter is here! xD And I couldn't help but include more authentic Forgotten Realms info than the game does; I've read about, and played in, Faerun for several years now . I hope you like it - Isaviel's in for some hard truths...

Isaviel had to admit that she was impressed. As soon as Khelgar had put on that belt and raised the hammer from its platform, the Ironfist Dwarves had turned to him as their king, cheering loudly for the death of the Fire Giant leader. Keros had been ousted in just those few moments, and in rage he had thrown his crown at his elder brother's feet. Isaviel should have been relieved – she should have been pleased. If nothing else, it should have made her happy to leave those wretched mines, riding on with Bishop and Grobnar, several days ahead of Khelgar and his gathering army.

But Isaviel's dreams, or rather her nightmares, had started to catch up with her. As the days passed and she rode for Crossroad Keep with Grobnar holding on behind her, singing his endlessly sad songs, she could not forget those nightmares in waking either. As she slept, she saw Elanee's staring, dead eyes, her skin growing pale as her blood pooled around her in the black earth. The girl had known she would die when she threw herself at Vashne, and she had smiled as she lay there in the mud watching Isaviel gasp for breath. She had saved all of them, though she had never loved them, because she knew that was the only way to combat the corruption spreading from the Mere. The steadily welling guilt that came with that expectation weighed heavily.

Isaviel's dreams replayed that scene again and again, adding more horror than she remembered feeling at the actual moment. But as she stared back at the fallen druid, transfixed, the scene always changed to a different place in the Mere, to the image of Tarmas and Merring and all the others lying in ruined West Harbour. Slowly, even this backdrop morphed, and half-seen images would flicker dizzyingly in her mind's eye. She would see a smiling woman dressed in red, a boy with golden eyes running after her, laughing, and then the scene would change, and she saw a glimpse of a great black library with robed men wandering through its enormous stacks. A horrible scream followed, high and ragged, and just the briefest flash of a vast stove, fires roaring within. There was a dark hall which always came next, presided over by an enormous man wearing black with a skull for a face. She saw a tall man beside her, and recognised his brilliant golden eyes – he was the same person who she always saw at the beginning of her dream, the laughing boy. There was no way she should have known this with such certainty, but she just…did. Upon his back spread great grey feathered wings, and his clothes were black. His face was twisted by a strange smile, and his head was tilted back in a proud stance.

The wrenching feeling that followed was so sickening, so painful that she invariably wished she could wake up, and wondered how it was that she did not. The presence within her twisted just a little worse each time, making her scream, and then she saw a city, huge and grey against a dark sky with a wall higher than the mountains around Haven. Their height alone made her quail, but the knowledge of where she was, of what this place had to be, was far worse. From the great wall came an endless universal scream, and she looked away, shaking, knowing she did not want to see the source of that wailing. But upon turning around, even when she closed her eyes, she saw the barren plane beyond, stretching endlessly into eternity with no horizon to end the sight, wherein milled millions of confused, wondering, drably dressed people. All of them stared up at the sky, some in fear, and some in hope. But Isaviel did not want to look up, and at the thought of where she must be her skin crawled with the horror of it, along with a great rage; why was she here? How unjust to be in this place! She awoke at that stage in her dream every time over the four-day ride back to Crossroad Keep, with pain burning in the scar over her chest and a scream of denial in her throat.

Somehow she did not feel weary after this ordeal, not even on the third night, though her disruptive screams had certainly taken their toll on Grobnar, lolling behind her on the horse. He always woke in the night at her scream, wide eyed and fearful for her, while she could imagine the hateful glare of Bishop, now trailing them with Karnwyr running in the woods alongside him. The ranger had quickly learned to take the watch during the unvaried time of her inevitable awakening, and watched her with uncomfortable distrust after the first night. He knew this was something more than just a recurring nightmare, though she would not have explained it to him had he bothered to ask.

Merring's lessons on the gods and the planes had not been lost on her in youth; they had always been her favourite stories. Thus it was that she knew that the city she saw in her dreams was the City of Judgement, the great throng of people outside its walls were wandering through the Fugue Plane, and they were the souls of the dead. How was it that she saw the City of the Dead every time she slept? Why did she dream of someone else's memories?

Isaviel had never been more relieved to see the hulking winter-whitened form of Crossroad Keep as she spurred her horse further ahead from Bishop, clearing the snowy forest…until she noticed the lines of marching soldiers entering its walls, others setting up camp in the fields outside. These men and women, dressed in the colours of Neverwiner, looked at her curiously from their snow-shovelling duties as she hurtled through their ranks, others with pale, fearful faces and wide eyes. There were many wounded soldiers being carried into the keep as well, borne on a path down the main road. Still, they all moved aside for her at the open gates, following the keep guards' lead and saluting, an additional gesture which made her cringe, until she spotted Kana standing at the centre of the bailey directing groups of soldiers.

"Knight-Captain!" her lieutenant cried, drawing herself up into a sharp salute as Isaviel rode right up to her and dismounted, Grobnar scrambling off the horse behind her.

"What in the Hells is this?" Isaviel demanded incredulously, gesturing at the chaos of soldiers – Greycloaks and less well-armed men, who looked to be some kind of volunteer force.

"The Neverwinter forces marched on Highcliff while you were away, Captain," Kana responded, her expression grave now, "Lord Nasher was wounded and they were forced to fall back here. Sir Nevalle has taken over temporary control of the keep in your absence."

"What?" Isaviel gawped, "What about Sand?"

"He has taken up the role of advisor…"

"Even with all these snivelling wretches, there'd better be enough ale for me," Bishop put in now, approaching with Karnwyr at his heels, pushing past one unfortunate Greycloak who was too slow to avoid him.

The ranger paused long enough to send a sneer Kana's way and then stalked off up towards the keep proper. Isaviel watched him for a moment, unable to explain her anger, and then looked back to her lieutenant when a soldier finally came over to lead her horse away.

"At least tell me where Sand is," the Moon Elf sighed, "And find the warlock as well. I must have words with them in my chambers. And I will not be disturbed. Not even by that armour-polishing sycophant, 'Sir' Nevalle."

"I…of course, Captain," Kana looked momentarily horrified, but recovered admirably quickly, "Sand should be working with Aldanon in the library currently, I'm sure they will be pleased to see you. And…you should know as well that your…allies returned several days ago with the shard you require."

"They did?" Isaviel narrowed her eyes doubtfully at Kana's uncomfortable expression, her hand automatically going to the bag she carried with the other pieces of the sword, "With no trouble at all? You hardly look pleased."

"Nothing they could not handle," Kana drew herself up quickly, suddenly looking like she wished she were anywhere but there, "The Githzerai was required to call on the true name of the Reaver which attacked the group, and it took its toll. She had been recovering in the temple for several days now…"

"But there's more you aren't telling me," Isaviel stated, gritting her teeth in frustration against the lieutenant's shifty look.

"Your…weapon-master. He left us almost a tenday ago, and there is cause to believe he will not return. Neeshka has not taken well to it," Kana admitted, and the look of sympathy which passed over her usually stern face was truly unsettling for Isaviel, even as those words sunk in to her consciousness.

Her first reaction was a feeling of disappointment, and frustration. He had promised to help her train with her longsword! He had seemed so much more….stable than the others. But she held back her angry retort and instead nodded firmly and sent Kana away. She would need to see Neeshka as soon as she had a spare moment. It would not do to lose the Drow and the Tiefling both. But first, she had to deal with Ammon Jerro, and this time she would brook no lies or evasions.

While her lieutenant strode away purposefully, Isaviel could at least find some solace in the relieving information that the final shard was found, and the others were well. She began looking around for familiar faces – perhaps Neeshka would be in her house, dealing with Guild papers, or Casavir might be helping the new soldiers organise themselves in the bailey. Sand would probably be in the library with Aldanon and Ammon Jerro, and failing that the wizard would be in the workshop of his home…

"My lady? My lady Isaviel?" Grobnar asked cautiously, tugging at her cloak, and the Moon Elf looked around at him blankly for a moment before she followed his pointing hand.

The sight she saw was enough to boil her blood, and for a moment her vision clouded with red. None other than Torio Claven stood surveying the busy main bailey from the top of the rise upon which the keep itself stood. There was an irritating little half-smile on her face, a red flush on her cheeks from the bite of the bitter winter winds. Wrapped in an enormous fur pelt, she wore a cloak of Neverwinter colours beneath this additional layer, and her long velvet dress was also of the pale blue and white of the Jewel of the North. By her side was Sir Nevalle, his parade armour shining painfully in the waning light, the closed eye of Tyr on his tabard glaring down at her. He held his plumed helmet under one arm, striking a gallant pose as he pointed at something off in the distance for Torio's benefit.

"What is she doing here?" Isaviel snarled, already beginning to storm her way up to the keep, "She tried to get me killed! She works for Luskan!"

"I do not know, Lady Isaviel," Grobnar responded anxiously, trotting to keep up by her side, almost slipping and falling behind a little on an untended patch of ice where the path up to Torio and Nevalle began.

Sir Nevalle turned with a bland look of innocence on his face as Isaviel bore down upon him. She was in no mood to be kept ignorant on such matters, the clamour of the bailey below ringing in her ears, the realisation that she had to face Sand and tell him of Elanee choking her. The only way she knew to combat this was with rage, and if he was not careful Nevalle might just become the conduit.

"Isaviel Farlong," he greeted, his hand on his sword as he stepped smoothly between the Moon Elf and Torio, "What a pleasant surprise to see that you have arrived. You have found the troops you needed, I trust?"

"We did," Isaviel gritted out, her hand closing around the hilt of Lord Halueth Never's sword in equal warning, nodding to Torio's smiling face and wishing she could break that smile, "Why is she here?"

"Forgive me for the manner of our last meeting, Isaviel," Torio put in now, still with that self-satisfied smile, stepping up behind Nevalle and being certain to keep the knight between her and the Moon Elf, "But I did it all in service of Neverwinter, which I am sure you can understand – being a loyal servant of the city yourself. It is an impressive keep you have here. To rise so quickly, from a West Harbour farmer to Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep…it astounds me."

"Keep your false courtesies," Isaviel told her coolly, "If passing me on to the Low Justice of Luskan was your duty in the service of Neverwinter, then you should expect to find a place in the Tomb of Betrayers, not standing here."

"Your mistrust is understandable, Isaviel," Nevalle put in now, his tone anything but sympathetic, "But Torio has always been working as an agent for Neverwinter, against Luskan. We noted the threat posed by Garius some time ago, and implemented her position in the City of Sails to our advantage. It was required of her to take up the case against you in regard to Ember. As her husband, I can vouch for her sincerity in this matter."

Isaviel just stared blankly from Torio and Nevalle and back again for several long moments, wishing her shock were not so plain. She tried to speak, and almost choked on her rage, her hand shaking on the hilt of her sword.

"J-just….keep her away from me," the Moon Elf managed eventually, "I don't care what she did in the service of Neverwinter, I only care about what she almost did to me."

She did not care what Nevalle or Torio had to say about that either, and could not bear to look at their fake, gloating faces any longer, preferring to head through the main gates which stood open to allow the constant stream of hassled Greycloaks and robed priests to move in and out. Stepping into the great hall beyond, Isaviel was not prepared for the state in which she found it, for somehow its impressive size was amplified by the sheer number of wounded soldiers lying in many long rows along its floor. Priests of Lathander moved amongst them, tending to them with ointments, bandages and healing spells – there were many more than the small temple in the castle had originally housed, and they had undoubtedly come with Nasher and his army.

There was no sign of the Lord of Neverwinter himself, and for that Isaviel was glad. Making her way towards the door leading to the library, Grobnar still in tow, the Moon Elf heard a soldier coming out of the banquet hall commenting on the early morning drill with Casavir. His companion started to make a lewd comment about Qara and her methods teaching the Many-Starred Cloaks, although he stopped abruptly when his Knight-Captain paused to glare at him pointedly.

His open anxiety brought a slight, rueful smile to Isaviel's face which lasted until she and Grobnar left the main hall, the noise dulling as they stepped into the corridor outside the library. Torches sent reddish light flickering down the stone passage, revealing that there was no guard standing in front of Ammon Jerro's room at the far end where the corridor split. That meant that the warlock was elsewhere, minded as always by at least one of the higher ranking members of the Many-Starred Cloaks.

"Knight-Captain," the guard on the door to the library greeted, standing to attention as Isaviel approached.

Trying not to flinch at that response, Isaviel sent the man a stiff nod and made a point of opening the door herself, feeling her heart pounding in fear of the conversation she must soon have. She found herself hoping that Sand would not be in there after all. There was a great rushing in her ears at the thought. Oh gods, Elanee. Would he blame her? Did she blame herself?

As always in the library it was cold, colder than ever in fact – enough that Isaviel shivered against the chill air even through her travelling clothes and both of her cloaks. She saw Sand immediately, leaning over a book on the table at the centre of the room, a globe of light hovering amongst the arms of the low-hanging chandelier above. Aldanon was muttering to himself on a chair nearby, making notes on a chart out of a thick black book which looked suspiciously like the Tome of Iltkazar.

Seeing this scene, Isaviel came to a sudden halt beyond the first row of stacks, and Grobnar walked straight into her legs with a startled squeak. Watching the wizard ahead of her, the Moon Elf found herself even more nervous than she had been to begin with. Something about the way he stood there, frowning slightly in deep concentration, one slender finger tracing the path of the particular line upon which he was focusing…she found him a beguiling sight. The golden buttons of his green velvet doublet had not been fastened all the way up and his untidily laced white shirt was visible, his black hair hanging around his face as he looked down, the rings and studs in his ears sparkling in the light which was casting such artful shadows below his sharp cheekbones...

"Sir wizard! And Master Aldanon!" Grobnar cried in greeting, breaking the spell.

Sand looked up first, and he turned immediately to Isaviel, a pleased smile spreading over his face. Grobnar had trotted over to Aldanon, to ask him about something involving his translation of the Tome of Iltkazar, and that left Isaviel staring at Sand, who approached her now with swift strides. All of her fears hit her at once; her guilt over Elanee, her discomfort over the changed situation at Crossroad Keep and everything that must follow. What of her dreams?

"It is good to have you back," Sand greeted warmly as he approached, though there was already worry evident in his perceptive eyes.

When the wizard reached her, pulling her into an embrace, she could barely hold back suddenly choking tears, clinging to him tightly, and perhaps he had seen a sign of her emotions on her face for he simply held her. She had not realised how much she had missed him until she saw him, nor how many realisations she had been ignoring. His hand rested gently against the back of her head, stroking her hair, and somehow that made her feel worse, shaking in his arms, explaining all the other events of their journey as quickly as she could.

"Isaviel, tell me what happened," the wizard demanded, carefully keeping his tone gentle as he took hold of her shoulders and pushed her back a little to look into her tearful eyes.

She had not even noticed how wildly she had begun babbling about the successes of their journey, as if that might hide the truth. Sand's turned briefly towards Grobnar as well, who was looking over at him with those wide, miserable eyes again. The wizard seemed to have already comprehended the words Isaviel was going to say before she dared to speak them, for when he looked to her again his face was grave.

"Elanee…she's…dead."

Isaviel had only told Sand everything once they had reached her chambers, and though the alliance she had achieved with the Dwarves was a triumph, it did not quell the horror of the other news she brought. Though she had been so clearly upset upon their reunion, she had held back her tears, and by the time she had spoken in more detail of Elanee's death her voice had been cold and steady. He had seated himself opposite her by the fire, watched her curl up in her large chair, still dressed in her travelling clothes with the dirt of the road upon her, hugging her blue knight-captain's cloak about herself. He had seen her fear, her repressed guilt, the way that even as her voice remained steady, her face showed her pain.

As the Moon Elf completed her account of the events of her travels, Sand had stood and turned away, leaning on the mantelpiece and staring into the flames, not sure what to think. He had felt her eyes following him, and knew her well enough to understand that she would not even allow herself to cry out of sight. Her hardness was necessary, she believed. He had noticed that when Shandra died, but at least Shandra had been her friend, and she had finally been able to cry. Elanee was never her friend, and somehow that made it worse, Sand understood that too. It was true that of these two dead companions, Shandra had been the one without a choice, afraid that the Githyanki might come after her even if they would avoid Isaviel. Still, perhaps Elanee had known the Mere was doomed all along – she certainly had kept more of herself secret than the rest of them.

"Is it my fault?"

Isaviel's softly spoken words caught Sand off guard. He looked back around at her just as someone hammered on the door, and for only an instant did he see her real vulnerability; her guilt. She looked so wide-eyed and young…but at the sound of the knocking a small frown appeared on her face and she stood, striding across the room and opening the door sharply. She met eyes with whoever waited beyond, gave a curt nod, and stepped aside for him to enter.

"What is it that requires me to enter your closest trust, Elf?" Ammon Jerro questioned dryly as he stepped through, those glowing tattoos on his face cutting through the dim light, giving his weathered face a skull-like cast.

Sand could not avoid his own confusion as he looked from the warlock to Isaviel, who was just closing the door, turning to face Ammon with her arms folded and her face grim. The warlock gave her a long cold look before shrugging sharply and moving to the central table, taking a seat which gave him a vantage point from which he could glare successfully and seamlessly from Isaviel to Sand and back again. For his part, the wizard just watched his Knight-Captain and waited patiently.

"When I left, I told you we must have words," Isaviel reminded quietly, moving over to rest her hands on the back of the chair across the table from Ammon Jerro, "But now there has been…a progression in my condition, and it is in your best interests to answer me truthfully and fully," her golden eyes flickered over to Sand, "Just entering the Mere almost killed me, like the shard was twisting in my chest, trying to get out. But once the Dwarves had healed me…something happened. I am stronger than I was…stronger than I ever was; more awake and more alert, quicker too. I hardly need to sleep, and when I do I see…"

She frowned and paused when Ammon Jerro began to laugh. It was not a mirthful sound, not really, but it burst from the warlock all the same, sounding hard and bitter. Beginning to understand that this was about Akachi the Betrayer, and that Isaviel was afraid of what she would learn, Sand came to the table as well, brushing her elbow imperceptibly as he took the seat beside her. She turned to him all the same, and he looked away sharply, something in him jolting. Gods, but she was beautiful – and so very determined.

"Forgive me," Ammon Jerro all but sneered without a hint of real remorse, "Forgive me for what I now must say, but it would appear that your link to the Betrayer's curse has grown, especially thanks to the healing powers of the Dwarvish clerics – perhaps it has reached its entirety in you – and that can only mean one thing. You are now, by coincidence or otherwise, the lone vessel of Akachi's cursed soul," the warlock's pale eyes turned to Sand now, and he nodded, seeing the wizard's stony expression, "Your wizard understands, girl, though you do not."

The realisation of what Ammon Jerro was telling them cut Sand to the heart. He wanted to weep for Isaviel, and found his throat was tight when she demanded that he explain the warlock's words to her. To house a second soul in one's body? It was not possible.

"Sand! What does he mean?" Isaviel asked him again, sitting down now so that she could lean forward with the sharp, impatient movements of youth to glare at him fully.

"With Akachi's soul…gathering within you, it will inevitably be pushing your own soul out," he told her softly, and watched her expression go blank, and then her fear was painfully evident to see.

"B-but I feel just the same," she protested, looking to Ammon.

"Do you?" the warlock jeered, "I thought you just said that you felt stronger and quicker? When you sleep you see memories now, do you not?"

"I…" Isaviel's head bowed, "I do. At first I thought they were dreams, but they are too vivid and detailed, and they show me things which I could never imagine. Some of the memories are mine, at first, but only a few, and then…when I see the memories, I am someone else. A man. Taller. I have…had wings. I keep seeing a…smiling woman, and a boy with golden eyes. I see the boy as a man, with great grey wings, standing beside me in a hall five time the size of Castle Never, black and twisted, with a skull-faced man sitting on the throne…" she gasped, her eyes glazing over, for in her mind's eye she was clearly recalling the details of these visions, and her words came out in a fast, breathy whisper of confused horror, "He…he was a god. And it was his hall we were standing in…my son and I. He had chosen us for…something. We were very proud."

"The god you see is…was…Myrkul," Ammon nodded, as offhand as if he were explaining the events of a well-known children's bedtime story, "You are seeing Akachi's memories, and the son with you there is Eveshi, with his grey wings and his golden eyes," the warlock paused, his face twisting in a horrid smile, "Eyes a lot like yours. Wings as yours should have been."

"There was a great black library, full of robed men who move as if they are zombies without thought," Isaviel continued almost as if she had not heard his taunting, "I know I was searching for something, something to give…passage…to an army. There was a furnace downstairs," her voice was shaking now, and the way she spoke so resolutely in the past tense chilled Sand – she was not conscious of how fully she felt these memories to be her own, "It was where they burn the traitors. It was where they burned her, my – his – wife. I wanted…needed…to get her back from the Wall."

"What else do you see?"

"The City of Judgement and the Wall of the Faithless," Isaviel responded immediately, her tone so steady and hard that a chill ran up Sand's spine yet again – it was as if another had spoken through her; it was her voice, but someone else's words, until she continued and she was herself again, "A great grey city with a central spire of glass, under a pale sky. Thousands of souls are screaming in the wall, and behind me there is an endless empty plain, full of lost people…"

"Waiting for the gods to claim them or forsake them, we know," Ammon told her sharply, and she flinched at his tone, her eyes wide with a look like panic. Sand rested his hand against her back, and though she flinched at that comforting action as much as she had to the hard words, she did not move away as the warlock spoke again; "Anything else?"

"Not much. A horrible pain, right over my heart, and the thing inside me twists and screams, making me scream too. I feel a sense of loss, defeat…and then a red rage which becomes agony, until I start screaming too, and then I wake."

Ammon was nodding calmly, wholly unsurprised, while a large part of Sand wished that Isaviel had not allowed him to witness this conversation between her and the warlock. How was he supposed to feel, when he knew she had seen and suffered such things? That her soul was being pushed out by a curse? There was another thing…the glass spire in the City of Judgement…but no…he would not think that…

"That would be the exaction of Myrkul's revenge after the Betrayer's Crusade. A summary of all that Akachi felt before his madness consumed him. Unfortunately for his descendants, he had fathered many children in his human days. Unfortunately for you he also fathered Eveshi during his time as a Deva. You have never been whole, not even as a child, for when Akachi died his soul spread out across his descendants, and when each of them died, their curse was shared out as well. Now just you are left, and you have inherited it all. You are going to lose yourself, and become the monster Akachi became," he shrugged, "So long as you kill the King of Shadows, it is all the same to me."

"But the full spirit eater curse could lay low a nation!" Sand blurted now, "Surely you would not see one threat rise to make way for a worse one! You must know of a way to help her…"

"It will not be necessary," the warlock told him stiffly, with words so cryptically certain that the wizard settled back in his seat, watching Ammon carefully.

"Then at least tell me how you know all this," Isaviel demanded, her voice thick with held back tears, "Tell me what happened to my mother."

Something akin to shame crossed over Ammon's face at her pained words, a raw look which took Sand by surprise. The warlock breathed out a long sigh, looking past the Moon Elf into the middle distance, his hands clenched together on the table in front of him.

"Very well," he snarled, "But I would remind you first that you will need me to kill the King of Shadows, just as – unfortunately – I need you for the very same. Any rash attempts to take vengeance would be entirely…unconstructive towards our shared, and most necessary, goal."

"Alright," Isaviel agreed grimly, her hand finding Sand's under the table and grasping it tightly. Her grip was painful, but he did not pull away.

"I first met Esmerelle in the Year of the Gate, 1341 of Dale Reckoning. We both understood the threat of the King of Shadows who had begun to show himself; blighting the crops and suchlike, as he did over the summer just passed. He was more hesitant then, perhaps less powerful after so long away from the Prime Material Plane. We knew that if we acted quickly enough, we would be able to make a difference. She had a more direct knowledge of Rashemen than I, but I had the capability to find out what we needed to know – and the access to the vaults in Neverwinter. I learned that we would need the Silver Sword of Gith to defeat the Guardian of Illefarn, because it can cut through his phylactery, through the cord that holds him to this plane, and end his life as well. After months of searching, I found proof of the sword's whereabouts; the last known wielder of the blade was Eveshi, son of Akachi the Betrayer, who had taken it into the Crusade with him, hoping in vain that it would have the power to slay his god. But Myrkul had remained impervious, and even as he cursed Akachi, he knew he was cursing Eveshi too. While he let the Betrayer run amok in his old home nation, he buried Eveshi deep beneath the ground to feel the starvation only the curse could enforce upon him. But it did not kill him; instead it drove him mad," Ammon shrugged, "He had the sword, so we tracked him down, and found the barrow in which he was imprisoned.

"As for your mother, I needed Esmerelle as a foil of sorts. I will not lie to you, Elf. When we went into that stone chamber, and we saw the imprisoned form ahead of us, it was clear that he was far stronger than we had expected. He was a Deva, a creature greater than mortals, blessed once by a god, with great grey-feathered wings and eyes that glowed gold even as they watched us with malice. He was held within a circle of black runes, and beneath his prostrate form was the sword we sought. So when Esmerelle dared approach, and as she fought him to no avail, suffering from his madness in a way neither of us could have foreseen, I used the situation to my advantage. I took the sword and I fled. There was no need to stay, and no way, I believed, that I could help your mother and hope to live to defeat the King of Shadows.

"She followed me on the road, ambushed me in the night, threatened me with death, told me she had killed Eveshi. Perhaps she had…I believe she had. Though he was strong, he was also insane, and she fought better than any other fighter I ever saw. She would have killed me, had she not been so weak and so…broken. Thus it was that you had come into being, and perhaps it was fortunate after all, for without the shard in your chest there would be little hope now, and without the curse in you that shard would have killed you for certain."

The warlock spoke his every word with a painful preciseness, watching Isaviel closely as he did so, and Sand could not tell if the man was revelling in the undoubted anger he was stirring in the Elf, or if he was simply daring her to try to act upon that anger. She certainly looked like she might do, her hand holding Sand's so tightly under the table that he was surprised to see no blood had been drawn when finally she let go and stood slowly, her face unsettlingly masklike. She did not break Ammon's stare, but simply stood slowly and pointed to the door, speaking with quiet menace.

"You are right – if you did not possess the Ritual of Purification, I would allow you no mercy. Get out. Now."

Ammon Jerro was satisfyingly compliant, though that painfully mirthless smile was marring his face once more as he stepped past the table. Even once he had gone, Isaviel continued to stare at the seat which he had occupied, her hands clenched into quivering fists.

"What kind of allies are these that I keep?" she asked through gritted teeth, "It seems I have been cursed with more than Akachi's soul. I must endure that bastard as well."

"We will have to be sure to hand him over to Neverwinter's justice once this is over, then," Sand acceded dryly, but Isaviel turned to send him a sneer more withering than any Bishop had ever achieved.

"Hardly," she told him, "I'll kill him myself."

Even as she spoke, her expression changed, and there was her fear shining so brightly once more. Sand stood automatically, though even as he rose he could think of no way of consoling her as she turned away from him, running a hand through her long hair, bowing her head, her shoulders slumped. The crystal tower of the City of Judgement. It gnawed at him.

"We have to find a way of removing the curse," she sighed, her voice shaking now at last.

"We will," Sand agreed, tentatively settling a hand on her shoulder, and when she turned to him her cheeks were stained with still falling tears.

When he looked into her large golden eyes, he thought he saw a twinkle of red deep within the pupils, the strange light lingering as it did when she was angry. The sign of Akachi. She did not look cursed, though, the wizard thought to himself. Truly, such beauty was wasted on the wretched ranger…even if that beauty was the due of all offspring of Astral Devas…

"I know, Sand," she told him with a tight smile that just made her look even more miserable, and his heart jolted with momentary fear – what did she know, exactly? "I know about the crystal tower. What it means."

"You understand exactly what it means?" Sand probed, only vaguely aware of his hands settling against her upper arms, ducking his head a little to look at her more directly as she nodded and his heart sank even further, "That the crystal tower of the City of Judgement was constructed by Kelemvor, and thus that vision cannot be a memory of Akachi's, who lived at a time when Myrkul was Lord of the Dead? You understand that this means…that a large part of your soul, if not all of it, is in some way held in the Fugue Plane, and not in your own body?"

"Yes," she agreed softly, meeting his gaze with a knowing look of her own.

There was something in the tone of her voice, the tilt of her head and the inviting proximity of her lips… he was stricken with the almost overwhelming desire to kiss her. And it almost looked like she…wanted him to.

"There must be a way to fix this," Sand said at last, reiterating his earlier point because his thoughts were nowhere near the task at hand, his voice barely a murmur as she leaned towards him almost imperceptibly, "You have not died…your soul does…not belong anywhere but here," his words were hard to find, though he meant them so fiercely, for her proximity was ever more difficult to ignore…

With a pang, he stepped back, his arms falling by his sides, and he sent her a tentative smile even as he reined in his roiling emotions. She needed someone to make her life simpler and clearer, not to confuse her romantic prospects as well.

"There has to be," she agreed at last, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly as if she understood his actions all too well, "And in the meantime, it was mentioned to me that there may be a way to learn about reforging the sword. The sooner you tell me, the sooner we can be on our way again. There's the matter of this last shard, as well. I'd like to see it." And just like that, she drew herself up, wiped away her tears, and steeled her heart right before Sand's eyes.

"Very well," the wizard agreed softly, unable to avoid the catch in his voice, so he cleared his throat uncomfortably, stepping back further, "I will have Kana assemble the others. We will meet in the…"

"…War Room. Have Nevalle and Kana stay with us, as well," she told him firmly.

Isaviel had corrected his assumption before he could speak, and he looked at her in surprise – not least regarding her harsh words. Furthermore, they had never used the War Room, though Nevalle had insisted it be installed, with a large central table covered in a map of the region and all the usual tools for planning strategy. Apparently Isaviel had undergone a change of heart. Or perhaps… but Sand pushed that thought away hastily, lest his skin crawl any more than it had to do in one day.

"One more thing," she called after him when he reached the door, that characteristic edge back in her voice, "Keep that snivelling bitch Torio out of my sight. Or I will not restrain myself as I have with Ammon Jerro."

He did not look back at Isaviel, for fear of what he would see in her eyes, and because he knew he would always regret choosing not to kiss her.