Previously…

The Stonespeaker looked at Zelyra and Kazimir, his gaze steady. "Hopefully, Rihuud will have information for us in a few days. In the meantime, you should return to your lodgings. Meet up with your group and rest. You have done much today." He then turned to Prince Derendil and mysteriously said, "Do not give up hope."

The quaggoth blinked in surprise.

Kazimir offered Zelyra a hand to help her stand. The druid took it, her legs shaky from the effort of the ritual, but there was a slight smile on her lips. They had succeeded. Rihuud was alive, and Eldeth and Balasar were at peace. As the trio made their way back through the caverns, their hearts began to lift, if only slightly. There was still much to do, and many challenges lay ahead, but for now, they could rest, knowing they had made a difference. And in the Underdark, that was no small feat.

Chapter Forty

Honoring the Fallen

1485 DR / Day 41

Darklake District, Gracklstugh

The narrow streets of the Darklake District were quiet, save for the distant echo of hammers striking stone as Gracklstugh slowly pulled itself back together. Zelyra, Kazimir, and Prince Derendil moved through rubble-strewn paths, their footsteps slow and heavy. They were too exhausted to hold polite conversation. The cavernous atmosphere of the Underdark pressed in around them, a familiar, suffocating weight of miles of stone overhead. But as the trio entered the outskirts of the Blade Bazaar on their way to Ghloroborn's Lair, Derendil came to a sudden halt.

"What is it, Prince?" Kazimir asked warily.

"Over there," Derendil said, pointing to a cluster of debris. "Perhaps my eyes deceive me, but wasn't that Gnaddne Tinmender's place?"

"Who?" the wizard replied, trying to place the name.

Zelyra gestured to the enchanted cloak draped across his shoulders.

"Oh—Oh! Gnaddne!" Kazimir exclaimed, his voice quickly shifting from recognition to dismay. For the wreckage was indeed the remains of the deep gnome seamstress's shop. The roof had caved in entirely, leaving only scorched remnants of support beams protruding like broken bones. Glass shards glittered among the rubble, traces of shattered windows, and an overturned sign lay cracked at their feet, its painted letters barely legible: Tinmender's Wares.

Two familiar figures were hard at work, sifting through the scorching debris—Manitou, the eccentric forest gnome with a penchant for surface-world teas and coffees, was darting about, his wild hair sticking out in every direction. Beside him, Brondiac, his bald and beardless hill dwarf partner, moved with the steady precision of a craftsman, lifting stones and setting them aside with quiet determination.

"We should help," Zelyra said, moving forward even as she spoke.

Kazimir and Derendil quickly followed.

As they drew closer, Manitou's high-pitched voice rang out in frustration. "Brondiac! I swear, if I lose another batch of my Bluecap Blend, I'll—"

"You'll what?" the hill dwarf grumbled. "We've got bigger problems than your precious brew, Manitou."

"Bigger problems?! There's nothing bigger than losing my number one seller!"

"What about Gnaddne?"

"I—you—Brondiac! I know, but she—what about the beans?! I just need to run back the cart for two minutes—"

Kazimir suppressed a chuckle as they approached.

"Need a hand, gentlemen?" the wizard called out.

Manitou looked up, bright eyes gleaming behind thick spectacles. "Ah! If it isn't the heroes of the hour!" he exclaimed. "You've come at the right time. We're trying to find Gnaddne."

"Themberchaud's rage caught up with more than just the big players… Our whole block took damage, but Gnaddne's shop got the worst of it," Brondiac said. "We think she's trapped inside, but no one else has come to help, and there's only so much two pairs of hands can do."

"Then it's a good thing you've got three more," Zelyra said, rolling up her sleeves.

Kazimir and Derendil followed suit, and together, they set to work. The debris was heavy, but with five sets of hands—and Derendil's immense quaggoth strength—they made quick progress. Kazimir used small bursts of magic to shift rubble where they couldn't lift while Zelyra's sharp eyes watched for movement. Manitou flitted about, offering encouragement and the occasional errant comment about how much more he could get done if he had a strong cup of surface-world coffee. Eventually, they found a cellar door buried beneath a cracked bookcase.

"Could she have taken refuge down there?" Kazimir asked.

"Yes, of course!" Manitou exclaimed. "That's where Gnaddne keeps her… special inventory."

Brondiac leaned down, knocking on the door gently. "Gnaddne? You down there?"

A faint, irritable voice promptly answered—

"About time! What are you lot waiting for? An invitation?"

Kazimir raised an eyebrow, stifling a smile. "Oh, she's down there all right."

"Classic Gnaddne," Manitou agreed. "Always a firecracker, even in the worst of times."

The door was jammed, its hinges warped by dragon fire and the weight of the rubble. Derendil gripped it, his muscles straining, and with a mighty pull, the door wrenched free. Stale air rushed out. But there, sitting on a pile of overturned crates, was Gnaddne Tinmender.

The cantankerous svirfneblin blinked at them. "Took you long enough," she huffed. Her stark white hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and round spectacles were perched on the tip of her nose. The cellar was stuffed full of mundane magical items—mostly knickknacks and trinkets—all proclaimed illegal for her to sell during Deepking Horgar's corruption. Gnaddne's sharp eyes locked on Derendil and narrowed.

"Come to call on your order, quaggoth? Or are you here to confiscate my wares?"

The prince blinked, clearly taken aback. "No, ma'am. Neither. We are here only to ensure your safety."

"Well, as you can see, I'm still kicking," the gnome grumbled.

Kazimir laughed out loud. "And we're glad to see it."

Gnaddne dusted herself off and hobbled out of the cellar.

"Hmph. Well, then... thank you, I suppose." Her gaze shifted as she began to inspect the damage to her shop. "Not that this mess is anything to be thankful for. Everything upstairs is ruined! All my fabrics, my goods! I'm afraid the timeline for your order will have to be pushed out," the seamstress told Derendil. "It was nearly done, but now…"

"Never mind that," the prince replied. "I've managed in these rags this far."

"No! I'll see it done," Gnaddne insisted, wagging a stubborn finger at him. "Somehow."

"Not all is lost. You've still got your stock in the cellar," Zelyra said.

The seamstress sighed. "Yes, yes... magic trinkets! But if the duergar still care about the laws under Chief Advisor Shal, I'll be in deep trouble if they discover them."

"You won't have to worry about Shal anymore," the druid said wryly.

Kazimir shifted awkwardly before clearing his throat. "But speaking of trouble... I have something to admit," the tiefling told Gnaddne, his silver gaze earnest. "I underpaid you for my cloak. Severely." And before she could protest, the tiefling reached into his satchel and produced an ample handful of gold coins. "You and I both know its true worth. This should more than compensate."

Gnaddne scowled, waving her hand dismissively. "Bah, keep your gold. You got a deal, wizard, and I'm not one for going back on bargains."

"Please, take it. Use it to repair your shop."

"I don't need charity! I've managed this long without—"

Before the crotchety gnome could finish, Kazimir's eyes flared with a shimmer of magic. "I insist," he said, his voice laced with charm. Gnaddne's eyes narrowed, but she snatched the pouch from his outstretched hand after a moment of stubborn silence.

"You're a pest, wizard."

"Pleasure doing business," he replied with a sly grin.

The svirfneblin gave the tiefling another long look, then nodded. "If you ever find yourselves in Blingdenstone, look up Getrig at The Handy Helper. Tell him you are trusted clients of mine. He'll see that you're taken care of."

Kazimir dipped his head in thanks.

"Stop by my cart before you leave the city!" Manitou cut in. "Not to assume but… folk like you have a way of coming and going quickly."

Zelyra looked to her two companions, who shrugged. "I don't think we have a plan yet," the half-elf admitted. "We'll have to discuss it with the others."

"Two drow elves, yes?" the forest gnome asked. "Sarith and… Fraeya, I believe her name was." When the trio nodded, Manitou said, "I had a delightful conversation with them! It really is a small world out there."

"How so?" Derendil asked.

"Why, wouldn't you know it? I know Sarith's brother! Rava Kzekarit! I haven't seen the drow in some time, but for our part, we became close friends," the gnome relayed.

Kazimir and Zelyra exchanged a dumbfounded glance.

"Rava… Kzekarit?" Zelyra repeated, mentally filing the name away for later.

"Yes, of course!" Manitou said. "He—hasn't Sarith told you about him?"

"Oh yeah, Rava!" Kazimir exclaimed as he put on his most charming smile. "You must forgive us, Manitou. Sarith doesn't speak about himself or his family very often. It took us a moment to place the name. It's been a rough day…"

"We all have been through the ringer," Brondiac agreed.

"But it's not just the drow elves that travel with you. There are others, yes?"

"A halfling, Fargas, another half-elf, Nine, and two myconid sprouts, Stool and Rumpadump," Kazimir listed. "There were two others, but…" his voice trailed off slightly. "They, uhm, fell… during the battle."

Manitou's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry for your loss. The city is full of it today."

"Yeah…" the tiefling muttered, his eyes downturned.

"All the more reason to stop by. I'll have something special waiting for you! A few things… actually," the gnome said absentmindedly, already noting a party of seven individuals plus two young myconids. He would plan accordingly.

"Let's just hope your 'special' isn't another bizarre brew," Brondiac said.

"Oh, Brondiac, you'll see. I think it will be just the pick me up this crew needs," Manitou insisted.

And with that promise made, the trio said their goodbyes and took their leave. The distance to Ghohlbrorn's Lair wasn't far, but exhaustion seeped into their bones, the kind of exhaustion that made even simple thoughts feel sluggish and hazy. They'd been awake for over twenty-four hours now, pushing through the chaos, the battles, the planning—the ritual—rescuing Gnaddne…

Zelyra wasn't sure if they were bordering on slap happiness or sheer collapse.

"If I don't find a bed soon, I might start conjuring them," Kazimir declared.

Prince Derendil stumbled on a loose cobblestone and then muttered in Elvish, "I would welcome even the curse of my quaggoth form if it meant I could rest."

"Delirium it is, then," the druid mumbled, rubbing her eyes. "We're almost there."

When they finally descended into the familiar depths of Ghohlbrorn's Lair, Derendil shuffled toward the guest wing of the establishment. Zelyra and Kazimir lingered in the common room for a moment. It was eerily quiet. The usual bustle of the tavern was reduced to a few overturned chairs and half-empty mugs of ale left on tables.

Only one person in their party was awake and waiting for them.

Sarith sat near the hearth, boots propped on the table, as he sharpened one of his daggers with slow, deliberate strokes. The soft scraping sound of metal against stone filled the otherwise silent room. His sharp and angular silhouette was cast in flickering light, but something about him looked... different. Zelyra blinked, rubbing her eyes, unsure if what she saw was real or a product of her exhaustion.

"Woah, what happened to you?" the druid finally blurted.

Sarith's face twisted in annoyance. "What?"

"I think she means your hair," Kazimir supplied.

"I cut it," the drow said with an eyeroll. His once long, silvery hair now barely brushed the tops of his shoulders. The edges were jagged and uneven as if hacked off with a dagger—which, knowing Sarith, was probably exactly what had happened.

"Seems like a drastic change…" the tiefling continued.

"It was burnt," the warrior said. "I fixed it."

"Well… it looks good on you," Zelyra offered.

The words left the druid's mouth before she fully registered them. Maybe it was the exhaustion talking, but the truth was, the shorter cut did suit him. Sarith blinked, clearly caught off guard by the compliment. His sneer fell away, only to be replaced by something entirely foreign. Zelyra was certain that she had never seen the drow smile since meeting him—but now, the corner of his dark lips twitched as if he wanted to but didn't really know how. Instead, he looked as though he had swallowed something sour.

"You don't have to look so pained. Hasn't anyone ever given you a compliment before?"

"Drow don't do compliments," Sarith snapped, his face hardening again. "At least not ones they actually mean."

"That's too bad," Zelyra said with a sigh. "I really don't understand your culture."

Sarith grunted, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. He turned away slightly as though the simple act of turning his back would end it all. But then Kazimir, ever the provocateur, added with a wry grin, "I'm with Zelyra on this one. You look sharp!"

Sarith groaned, his head falling back against the wall. "You're both insufferable."

"I think we've broken him," Kazimir whispered to Zelyra as he settled into a chair.

"Not a chance," the drow said without looking at either of them.

"You shouldn't do that, you know. You'll fall asleep right there," Zelyra warned the wizard. But Kazimir just sighed, sinking further into the seat.

"Five minutes. Just five minutes of not moving."

"Not five—now. Bed," the druid insisted.

The wizard groaned but pushed himself upright with exaggerated reluctance. He mumbled something about mother hens and cruel taskmasters before offering Zelyra a small smile.

"Goodnight."

"Night, Kaz."

The druid watched Kazimir shuffle off to his room before turning back to Sarith. The warrior's eyes were distant, focused on something she couldn't see. She wanted to say more, but words felt heavy. Instead, Zelyra muttered another goodnight before retreating to her own quarters. Stool and Rumpadump stirred slightly as she entered. Nine had an arm draped over her face, completely unconscious. Zelyra crossed the room and sank onto her mattress, the weight of the day crashing down.

She could not bear to look at Eldeth's cot.

Meanwhile, Kazimir flopped onto his cot in the adjacent room with an exaggerated groan, his robes bunching beneath him as he landed. Prince Derendil was snoring loudly. His regal bearing diminished as he curled up, looking more quaggoth than an elven prince in this moment of vulnerability. Fargas wheezed at a much lower volume in the other corner, oblivious to the world around him. Though the tiefling wizard longed to join them in sleep, he knew it would be a while before his mind let him drift off.

Too much had happened.

Too many unresolved threads still dangled in the air around them.

. . .

1485 DR / Day 42

Ghohlbrorn's Lair, Gracklstugh

Morning—if such a time could be called that in Gracklstugh—brought no new urgency, no immediate threats. Fraeya was the first to step into the common room. The scent of warm stew and bread wafted from the kitchens as the rogue stretched her arms above her head, rolling her shoulders to ease the stiffness. It felt strange, almost unsettling, to wake up without a defined goal. She was used to the tension of the chase, the adrenaline of survival. Today? Today felt... off.

Sarith was next to appear, his stride languid yet purposeful as he entered the common room from the direction of the bathing chambers. His shortened hair was wet and plastered to the sides of his face, and his crimson eyes were unreadable. Tension from their conversation the night before lingered between them.

"You're up early," Fraeya said, her voice casual but her eyes carefully watching him.

The drow warrior grunted as he sat down at the far end of the table. He hadn't slept well—if at all.

Kazimir and Prince Derendil wandered in a few minutes later. The former's silver hair tousled, and his thin tiefling tail lazily swished behind him. "I swear that sleep was both the best and worst I've had in days," he muttered, plopping down in a chair. "Feels like I'm only half awake."

Derendil glanced around the room, noting the physical distance between Fraeya and Sarith before he sat beside Kazimir. "I trust you rested well?" he asked the drow.

"As well as I could," Fraeya replied with a shrug.

Sarith muttered an unintelligible response.

Zelyra and Nine arrived together shortly after. The druid was still blinking sleep from her eyes, while the ranger looked sharp as ever. Stool and Rumpadump were absent. Nine confirmed that they were still resting in the quiet corner of their room. Fargas was the last to join the table.

"Why is it always so dim in here?" the halfling grumbled before collapsing into the nearest chair.

"It's the Underdark," Sarith replied.

Fargas looked at the drow in surprise, the unexpected comment waking him up like a dousing of cold water. "Did you just make a joke?" he asked incredulously.

Sarith just scowled and folded his arms across his chest.

"Maybe we really are breaking him," Zelyra whispered to Kazimir conspiratorially.

The tiefling hid his smirk behind a tight fist.

The table fell silent as they ate, each lost in their thoughts. The exhaustion of the past days, the tension of near-constant survival, and the unresolved conflicts that still hung over them weighed heavily on their minds. But as their plates were cleared and the last crumbs of bread soaked up the remnants of their stew, Kazimir set down his fork.

"So," the wizard began, glancing around the table, "we should probably update everyone on what happened at Cairngorm Caverns."

Zelyra nodded. "Yes. Rihuud's condition is stable, but... it's complicated. Stonespeaker Hgraam asked for our help in a ritual to retrieve his soul, which the Council of Savants somehow bound to the Abyss. We were able to reconnect him, but the damage is... Hgraam said that it'll take time for Rihuud to recover fully."

"So, he's alive but not quite out of danger?" Fargas asked.

"I believe so," the druid confirmed.

Nine rubbed her thumb over a dent in her mug. "Have we heard from Captain Blackskull?"

Sarith's face darkened at the mention of the duergar captain but allowed Fraeya to take the lead. "Yes. Sarith and I met with her briefly last night," the rogue revealed. "She's... preoccupied with the coup and the damage from Themberchaud's rampage. But we got a bit of news from her. Ilvara's scout, Xalith, escaped from Overlake Hold." Fraeya then looked at Sarith, her eyes narrowing. "Which is a problem…"

The mention of Ilvara Mizzrym sent a chill through the room. The drow priestess had been a constant shadow over their journey since their escape from Velkynvelve, and now, with her scout, Xalith, free as well, their enemies were only multiplying. But they had been running, fighting, barely surviving for so long that the idea of stopping, of choosing a direction, felt daunting. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it—the companions were spared from deciding then and there by Captain Errde Blackskull. Kazimir blinked as a clipped telepathic message flooded his thoughts via sending stone. He exhaled slowly and set his mushroom tea on the table.

"It appears our next move has been decided for us."

"How so?" Nine asked, suspicion crawling into her tone.

"Captain Blackskull," the wizard said, tapping the side of his temple. "We've been summoned to the Hold of the Deepking."

This was no idle command, and the companions all knew it.

"Well, breakfast was nice while it lasted," Fargas quipped, pushing away from the table with exaggerated flair. "Shall we?"

. . .

The trek to the Hold of the Deepking was somber. As the companions descended deeper into the city, where the conflict between duergar and derro had been prevalent, the scene grew dismal. Fallen duergar had been given their due, cleared away, and accounted for with rigid precision. But the derro, viewed with contempt by the city's rulers, were burned en masse. The stench of burning flesh permeated everything.

Fraeya pinched her nose, scowling beneath her cowl, while Kazimir's eyes were narrowed. The tiefling's grimace was a mask against more than the smell—it was the weight of loss, ever familiar. Zelyra walked with one hand resting on Flameruin at her hip, feeling naked and vulnerable without her shield. But the druid didn't have to turn to know that Nine was walking slightly behind the group, casting suspicious glances at every person they Derendil carried Stool and Rumpadump, carefully shielding them. Even Fargas had no smart remark to make of the slaughter.

Before long, the imposing stronghold of blackened stone loomed like a wounded giant before them, bearing heavy scars from Themberchaud's rage. Entire sections of the outer wall had crumbled away, leaving skeletal remains of jagged rock. Towers leaned precariously or had been reduced to rubble entirely, and molten slag pooled in once-proud courtyards. Duergar masons and laborers swarmed like ants, their tools striking a relentless rhythm against the stone as they toiled to repair what could be salvaged.

The scent of charred stone mixed with acrid smoke within the fortress and debris barred or blocked many corridors. The throne room, they were informed, was too damaged for use; it had borne the brunt of the dragon's fury. Instead, the companions were guided to a small chamber deep within the heart of the fortress, its walls smooth and unadorned except for the faintly glowing runes of warding and protection. A sense of urgency pervaded the air.

Deepking Horgar Steelshadow V sat at a heavy stone table flanked by Captain Errde Blackskull. Maps and scrolls were strewn out before them. Horgar's visage was grimmer than the last time they had seen him. His beard, a thick mass of braided iron-gray, was singed at the tips, and his dark eyes were shadowed with exhaustion. Broot had been called to the meeting as well. The warforged berserker towered over the two duergar, his mechanical form a patchwork of adamantine and darkwood woven together with root-like cords. The infernal runes etched into his armor whispered of countless battles.

The Deepking welcomed them, and the discussion that followed was heavy. Horgar recounted the death toll with a hollow tone. "1,672 derro are dead. That is the only positive outcome of this battle," the duergar bit, pausing as if tasting ash. "Seven stone giants fell. As for our own, we lost 3,479 duergar. Nearly a quarter of our kin. The clans all grieve, and the Lairds are fewer still."

"My clan alone," Captain Blackskull began, her voice low, each word clipped. "We lost 290," she said. There was no mistaking the anger in her tone, directed not at any one person in the room but at the tragic circumstances they all now faced.

"Have our fallen companions been recovered?" Fraeya asked.

Blackskull nodded. "Yes. Their bodies were retrieved by my honor guard and are being prepared for burial. I have proposed to the Deepking that they be given full honors in light of their sacrifice," she explained.

"To which I have agreed," the Deepking said with a dip of his head. "Even as non-duergar or a—Morndinsamman worshipper—they are heroes of Gracklstugh and shall be treated as such. Their weapons and armor have been salvaged to the best of our ability and are being held for safekeeping at the Temple of Laduguer. You may retrieve them at your leisure."

A small wave of relief washed over the group. At least their fallen friends would be honored, and their sacrifices would be remembered.

"May we see them?" Zelyra asked.

Blackskull hesitated. "If you wish, but I must warn you, their bodies are badly burned. You might prefer to retain your vision of them in life rather than death."

"I think she may be right, Z," Kazimir said softly, speaking from experience.

But Zelyra shook her head stubbornly. "One of us should confirm identity. For Eldeth's family's sake, if nothing else," she argued.

Surprisingly, it was Nine who said, "We all saw it happen… Why torment yourself further? Blackskull is right. Some things are better left unseen."

The druid's brave expression crumbled, and she did not argue the point further.

Deepking Horgar leaned forward, his heavy brow casting deep shadows across his face. "I will not forget what you've done for this city," he promised. "You exposed Shal's corruption and saved my people from further ruin. For that, we—I—owe you a great debt. You will be awarded a total of 15,000 gold pieces." His eyes darkened briefly before continuing, "You are welcome to stay, but should you choose to leave the city, we will provide you with a map of the Northdark, rations, and supplies."

"We haven't made a plan yet," Fraeya admitted. "But I think it's very likely that we will leave in the next few days."

Horgar nodded before his attention shifted to the wizard in the room. "I will also grant you access to my personal teleportation circle, though we cannot activate it now," he told Kazimir. "What few arcane practitioners we had perished in the battle. But should you eventually wish to return or need a place to lie low for a while…"

The insinuation was not lost upon the escaped prisoners.

"As long as I am Deepking, the Grey Warriors will always be welcome in these halls."

The companions exchanged baffled glances.

Again, with the name… Was that what they were to call themselves?

"Your generosity is overwhelming," Kazimir murmured, though a smile tugged at his lips. "We are humbled by your trust."

"This goes for you as well, Broot. You have done the Deepkingdom a great service," Horgar praised the warforged.

But Broot, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, replied, "I have no need for gold. If I may, Your Majesty, I would ask for a great weapon forged to my specifications. And more importantly, I would like to see a task force created to help rebuild and protect this city."

The Deepking raised a brow. "A task force?"

"Yes," the warforged continued. "The people of Gracklstugh have been through hell, but it's not over yet. You need more than soldiers. You need those who can act quickly, know the lay of the land, and will root out any remaining threats. I want to be part of that."

Captain Blackskull turned to the Deepking. "Broot is right," she said. "There's much to be done, and a specialized team could make all the difference in securing the city's future."

The Deepking leaned back in his chair, considering their words. His gaze swept over the adventurers, lingering on Broot before he finally nodded. "Very well. You'll have your weapon, Broot, and the task force will be formed. Captain Blackskull will oversee its creation, and you will be its first member."

Broot inclined his head in thanks. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I won't let you down."

Kazimir smiled at Broot's pragmatic approach. "It seems you've secured a long-term partnership with the city."

"My primary function is to weed out corruption. This city is still rank with it," the warforged said cryptically.

"It will take some time to gather your gold and supplies," Blackskull told the adventurers. The captain then turned to Zelyra and added, "And to make good on our former bargain, get your letters together, and I will see that they are sent with our next caravan bound for Mantol-Derith. I can't guarantee that they will reach the surface from there, but it is your best hope."

The druid felt giddy and numb at the offer. Varan. She had been privately writing to the half-elf ranger for tendays now, desperate for news to reach the surface, to let someone—anyone—in Taras Aldar know what she and her companions had been through. It gave Zelyra some relief to think that Varan might one day read them, though guilt grossly overshadowed most of her emotion. She had much to apologize for.

"For now," Captain Blackskull continued, her voice softening, "We shall all partake in a cask of Darklake Stout. We've lost too many. Let us honor them."

Kazimir grinned as the cask was placed on the table, though Nine eyed it warily.

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you," the ranger muttered. "Who knows what's in it."

"I'll take my chances," the wizard chuckled as he accepted a mug.

Fraeya glanced at Sarith and, out of the corner of her mouth, she hissed, "Jala cahallin xal tlu elg'cahlin," in Drow. Any food may be poison. "You would think she's one of us…"

The warrior's upper lip quirked slightly.

King Horgar took a long, slow drink as the others accepted their cups, his eyes clouding with deep sadness. "There is one more matter. Though, I suppose it is not necessarily your concern," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "My daughter, Olna... she's missing."

"You have a daughter?" Prince Derendil asked curiously.

The Deepking nodded.

Fraeya frowned, leaning forward. "When did you last see her?"

The Deepking closed his eyes, his face twisted in frustration. "I don't remember. My memories are hazy. Shal must have controlled me for longer than I realized… I can't even recall the last time I saw Olna."

Fraeya, ever perceptive, seized the opportunity. "Do you remember hiring Shal yourself, or did someone put her in your presence?"

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as Horgar wrestled with the elusive memory. At last, he let out a low, frustrated growl. "I… don't remember," he admitted. "And that worries me. Succubi rarely act alone… If one was here, it means something—or someone—greater is pulling the strings. Perhaps that is something your task force could investigate, Broot."

Broot nodded. "Consider it done, Your Majesty."

The companions exchanged troubled glances, each considering the implications of the Deepking's troubling words. But before the silence could deepen, Horgar downed his drink, his demeanor shifting and hardening with a renewed resolve. "I cannot dwell on what's gone," he said firmly, setting his mug down with a sharp clink. "I have a city to rebuild." He inclined his head to the party, a solemn farewell. "May you find the peace Gracklstugh cannot yet offer, Grey Warriors."

Captain Blackskull gave the adventurers a steely nod before following the Deepking, though her gaze lingered a moment longer on Kazimir. Broot trailed after, casting a final, respectful nod to the companions. The wizard exhaled as the door closed behind them. "Well," he said, lifting his mug, "here's to survival—and to the strange bedfellows we've made in these dark days."

Zelyra lifted her cup. "To Balasar. To Eldeth. To all of them."

One by one, they all raised their mugs in a quiet toast, a silent promise to honor the lives they'd lost and the alliances they'd forged.

. . .

Later, the companions moved through the streets of Gracklstugh, the weight of their next task pressing heavily on their shoulders. Their destination was the Temple of Laduguer, where the bodies of Eldeth and Balasar had been taken. Kazimir walked beside Zelyra, silent, his eyes flickering with sadness and resolve. Ahead, Fraeya and Nine led the way, their expressions grim. Prince Derendil followed in his regal albeit sorrowful manner. Fargas fell line behind the cursed elvish prince with Stool and Rumpadump trotting alongside him. And Sarith, ever the distant shadow, brought up the rear.

When they reached the temple entrance, the group was met by two clerics—duergar with stoic expressions, their beards braided with ceremonial iron clasps. One gave a slight nod, stepping aside to allow the companions entry.

"They are ready," the priest said in a low voice. "Take all the time you need."

Zelyra swallowed hard, her stomach churning as they were led to a private stone chamber. The air was thick with incense, a cloying, heavy perfume that did little to mask the sharp tang of death. Two stone slabs were draped with white sheets at the far end of the room. Eldeth and Balasar. The clerics had done what they could, but nothing could fully erase the toll Themberchaud's flames had taken on their friends. The druid's heart clenched as she stepped forward, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Captain Blackskull's warning echoed in her mind—

You might prefer to retain your vision of them in life rather than death.

I want to see them, the druid had insisted.

But now, standing before the covered forms, Zelyra's resolve wavered. Did she want this to be her final memory? Her hand hesitated above the sheet covering Eldeth.

"Z, you don't have to," Fraeya said, her voice gentle.

The druid's heart pounded in her chest. Every instinct screamed at her to pull the shroud back and look—to know—even though she already knew the truth deep down.

"Remember them as they were," Nine said quietly behind her.

The rogue nodded in agreement. "Yes. Hgraam told you they are at peace."

Zelyra's breath hitched, her brave front crumbling. She wanted to be strong and face this moment head-on, but she couldn't bear the thought of seeing her friends lesser than how she had known them…

Her fingers curled into a fist, and she slowly withdrew her hand.

"I… I can't," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I can't do it."

The admission hung in the air, a fragile confession of her fear. Her hand fell back to her side, and she stepped away from the slabs, her shoulders shaking with grief. Fraeya gently touched one of the druid's shoulders while Nine clutched her left. It was a moment of solidarity that Zelyra had not expected from either of them.

Meanwhile, Prince Derendil stood by the far wall, shifting uncomfortably as he held Dawnbringer in his clawed hands. "I feel I am not worthy to wield this sword," he admitted aloud, his deep voice rumbling through the chamber. "Balasar was the one who found her… who wielded her in battle. She should have been his to carry forever."

A gentle, feminine voice filled the room, and the companions realized it was Dawnbringer herself projecting, her words gentle yet firm."Worth is not something one is born with, my prince. Worth is built with each choice, each moment of courage in the face of fear. Balasar chose you as a trusted companion. And I, too, will stand beside you… if you will have me."

The quaggoth's massive shoulders relaxed slightly, his hands wrapped firmly around Dawnbringer's hilt as though drawing strength from her words. "Then I swear," Derendil murmured, voice thick, "as long as I breathe, I will wield you to protect my friends… and to honor him."

One by one, the others gave their respects.

Kazimir looked down at Balasar's covered form. The dragonborn fighter had been a steady presence—a beacon of honor and courage that had burned so brightly that it was impossible to believe he was gone now. He had taught the wizard how to play to his strength, and Kazimir would forever be grateful for that.

"One day, I hope to give Themberchaud hell for you, buddy," the tiefling swore.

Nine lingered nearby, her gaze downcast. The ranger looked like she wanted to say something but struggled to find the words. She had never been comfortable with goodbyes, and this one was no different. At last, she murmured, "I didn't know you long… but neither of you deserved this." She looked up, her usual sharpness softened. "I'll keep fighting. For them, too."

Fargas cleared his throat, his expression somber as he fiddled with his nightvision goggles. "I know I'll miss their strength but also their kindness. It's hard to find people like that down here… maybe anywhere." He gave a small, sad smile. "I'll drink to them every chance I get."

Fraeya stood apart from the others, her silver eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight. The drow approached the covered bodies slowly, her movements measured. She carried no offerings, no grand gestures. Instead, she let out a long, slow breath, her gloved hands curling into fists at her sides. "If there's one thing I know," she said softly, "it's that drow don't usually get the chance to mourn. We're taught not to." She paused, a bitter smile playing at her lips. "But I'm not in Menzoberranzan. Not anymore."

The drow then crouched, bringing herself closer to the ground, and whispered words that no one but her fallen companions could hear. When she rose, her eyes were hard, resolute. She nodded once to the covered forms and stepped back, wordlessly joining Zelyra and Kazimir.

Sarith stepped forward last, his movements rigid and crimson eyes unreadable. He was not Fraeya. He had not fallen to her level of softness… and yet, the drow warrior's thoughts were tangled, too dark and complex to voice. His grief, like so much else about him, was kept close and hidden. So, he stood vigil. And that was his way of honoring the fallen.

In the heavy silence that followed, the companions gathered Balasar and Eldeth's belongings and carefully packed them in the Bag of Holding. But as Zelyra reached for Eldeth's shield, she hesitated. Her fingers brushed its cool surface, feeling the etchings, worn smooth by years of service, under her fingertips. Each groove seemed to hum with the spirit of the dwarven warrior. Eldeth had been just like her shield, an unbreakable wall, a friend who had given everything to protect those around her.

"I'll return it to your sister, Eldeth," the druid promised.

"It doesn't have to be packed away, you know," Fraeya said. "I imagine she'd be proud to see you wielding it. To see it still protecting the people she gave her life for."

Zelyra swallowed thickly. It wasn't a bad idea. During the battle against Themberchaud, her wooden shield was destroyed, and she felt strangely naked without it. It would be somewhat unconventional, as druids typically did not don metal. And yet, nothing felt more fitting. She was willing to carry this burden, figuratively and literally, until she could either return it to Eldeth's family or find a suitable replacement.

The druid straightened, her green eyes bright with determination, even as a tear escaped and traced a line down her freckled cheek. "I can't bring them back," she told her companions. "But as long as we're here, we carry them forward. Every step, every fight. They'll be with us."

Prince Derendil cast one last glance at the stone slabs as the group filed out of the temple, his heart heavy but resolute. Dawnbringer's promise and Zelyra's final eulogy echoed in his heart—they would honor their fallen comrades not just with words but with the actions they took from this moment on. And as they stepped back onto the cobblestone streets of Gracklstugh, Derendil felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. He would not succumb to the nature of a beast. He had to be worthy. For Balasar. For all of them.