The sour tang of rotting flesh clung to Astarion like a second skin as he crouched with his companions beneath the desk in necromancer's workshop. Crates stacked high in front of them provided a flimsy barrier against the approaching figures.

He pressed his back against the desk's rough underside, his chest tightening as the sound of boots scuffed across the stone floor. His eyes wandered over the four figures entering the room, so familiar and yet at the same time, complete strangers.

Durge had alway been an intimidating presence, but now he radiated pure brutality. His alabaster scales were a striking contrast to the rich red and black of his heavy, ornate armor. Each plate seemed to have been crafted not just for battle, but to tell a story of strength and authority. The jagged edges of his pauldrons and the bladed gauntlets seemed designed to wound as much as protect.

Lae'zel had evidently discarded her broken githyanki armour in favor of an upgrade. She was clad from head to toe in blackened steel adorned with crimson filigree and glowing runes, its design a delicate balance of elegance and menace.

Shadowheart followed, her figure an oppressive silhouette in the gloom. Carved into her chestplate were the now proudly worn symbols of Shar. The deep purple hue of her plate armor seemed to drink in the surrounding light, casting faint shadows that didn't align with the room's flickering lanterns. Her helm obscured most of her face, but her stance radiated cold disdain, her hand resting on the hilt of her mace.

Then there was Gale. Astarion's lips twitched at the sight of him, part grimace, part bitter amusement. The wizard's transformation was grotesque in its absurdity.

Gone were the immaculate purple robes and scholarly refinement. In their place was an outfit more suited to a brothel than a battlefield. Leather trousers and straps of dark leather crisscrossed his torso, leaving much of his bruised skin exposed. A brown leather collar gleamed at his throat and Astarion's gaze lingered on it, stifling the urge to sneer. Whatever abyss Gale had tumbled into, he had embraced it wholeheartedly.

Rolan shifted beside him, his anger radiating like heat. The tiefling's breathing quickened, nostrils flaring as his fingers twitched toward his sword. Astarion slid a hand onto Rolan's arm, fingers tightening in warning. He shook his head once, slow and deliberate.

Rolan turned his glare on him, his whisper barely controlled. "He's right there."

Astarion leaned closer, voice low and sharp. "And so are two highly trained and impressively armoured killers and a wizard who - bruises or not - could still incinerate you with a thought."

Ashara shifted beside them, her leather boots scraping faintly against the stone as she adjusted her position. "We can take them," she murmured, her tone defiant.

Astarion turned his head slightly, enough to glare at her. "Uh, no. Trust me, we can't. Not like this anyway."

Ashara and Rolan exchanged muttered curses, but they stayed still. Astarion exhaled silently, the tension easing just enough to allow a sliver of relief. His hand fell back to his side, brushing against the hilt of his dagger. He didn't draw it. The odds were bad, and he'd learned - through no small amount of pain - that there was no bravery in blind foolishness.

"When did I become the voice of restraint and reason? Gods help us all," Astarion muttered to himself.

His mind wandered for a fleeting second. Ever since he had started traveling with Ashara and Onyx, something had shifted. He had been a slave to another's will for centuries, forced to obey, never allowed or trusted with choices or responsibility. Now, for the first time, people looked to him. Ashara and Rolan followed his lead, however reluctantly, and Onyx's trust in him had planted a strange seed. He could feel its roots curling through him, unsettling and foreign.

It was terrifying and liberating at the same time.

Durge stepped toward a bloodied slab, gesturing at the mutilated corpse sprawled across it. Flesh hung from exposed ribs, the body flayed and gutted in what appeared to be a half-finished dissection.

"This necromancer is too messy," Durge remarked, his voice cold and measured. "That is no way to flay a corpse. Sloppy work."

Lae'zel's lip curled as she waved a hand in front of her face, as though to banish the smell. "Let us find the moonlantern and leave this vile-smelling place."

Gale, standing near a bookshelf, turned his head slightly, the tag on his collar jangling faintly with the movement. "Be wary of traps," he said, his voice tight. "V'rell did warn us Balthazar dislikes intrusions."

Shadowheart interrupted with a snort, her arms crossing over her armored chest. "Yes, thank you, Gale. We were there when she mentioned it."

Gale bristled, his fingers twitching toward the spellbook slung at his side. "Forgive me for emphasizing the dangers. It's only our lives at stake."

Lae'zel sneered, shifting to the center of the room. "If you are so concerned for our safety, perhaps you should take the lead. Trigger any traps for us, wizard. That way, we'll know which paths to avoid."

Astarion watched as Gale's jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening on the edge of the shelf. He didn't respond, though the faint tremor in his shoulders betrayed his frustration. Durge turned away, uninterested in their squabbling, and moved toward a side table cluttered with vials and bone saws.

Astarion's crimson eyes followed the dragonborn as the hulking figure moved through the room, his armored boots scuffing against the blood-streaked floor. The way Durge handled the space, with casual contempt, grated on him. He jabbed at scattered tools and overturned jars without care, his gauntleted hands smearing remnants of old alchemical experiments across dusty surfaces.

When Durge began striding toward the desk, Astarion's heart lurched. He froze, muscles taut as a bowstring, his fingers inching toward the hilt of his dagger. The crates in front of him suddenly seemed pathetically thin, their protection flimsy against such a behemoth. Just as Durge's shadow began to darken their hiding spot, a low, rumbling sound interrupted the tension.

The sound came from the far side of the room, drawing Durge's attention. He turned, his head tilted slightly, and Astarion followed his gaze to Gale. The wizard stood near the far wall, where a section had opened up to reveal a small room beyond.

He called out, his voice subdued but tinged with an odd, clipped excitement. "I think I have discovered a secret workshop."

The entire group shifted toward him. Lae'zel was the first to move, her stride purposeful, her blade already half-raised as if expecting danger. Shadowheart lingered for a moment, her gaze sweeping the room once more before following the others. Durge gestured sharply for Gale to continue, his impatience evident in the clipped motion of his hand. One by one, they entered, their silhouettes disappearing into the passage.

Astarion's shoulders loosened slightly, though his nerves remained taut. He exhaled silently, his gaze fixed on the doorway. From his position beneath the desk, he couldn't see into the hidden chamber, but their voices carried clearly, distorted slightly by the enclosed space.

Gale's voice emerged first, tinged with academic curiosity and a trace of unease. "A ritual circle... and a complex one, at that. I've seen something similar in the writings of the Weavepasha of Almraiven, though his interpretations were far less... twisted."

Lae'zel's tone was sharp, impatient. "What is its purpose?"

Astarion tilted his head, straining to catch every word. Gale spoke again, his voice lower, more deliberate. "The sigils are written in a curious mix of tongues - ancient Calishite, Netherese, and something else... I can't quite place it. If I'm reading it correctly, this was used in the creation of Moonlanterns."

Durge's voice rumbled with cold authority. "Can you replicate his results, mage?"

A pause hung in the air, thick with tension. "Mystra would not look kindly on magic like this," Gale admitted, his tone hesitant, almost cautious.

"That's not what I asked you," Durge snapped, his voice low and dangerous.

Gale's next words came slower, tinged with a faint, unwilling dread. "The discarded pixie corpses might still contain enough essence. If paired with a damaged lantern casing, I could attempt to craft another."

"Then do it," Durge ordered, his voice thick with finality. "To the hells with what Mystra thinks. She does not command you. I do. A fact you seem to keep forgetting."

Astarion winced at the tone, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Gale's voice came, quiet and submissive, sending a prickle of unease across his skin. "Of course, master. It was not my intention to defy you, merely to point out potential obstacles to my success. I will set to work immediately."

The deference in Gale's voice turned Astarion's stomach. His mind raced, trying to piece together the implications of what he'd just heard, even as a distant part of him recoiled at how far Gale had fallen.

From the secret chamber, faint sounds of movement echoed - objects being shifted, tools clinking against stone. Then, a flash of light erupted, its brilliance spilling through the cracks of the hidden doorway. It painted the crates and walls in stark, flickering relief. Astarion's lips parted in a silent breath of surprise as Gale let out a sharp curse, followed by a muffled cry of pain.

Durge's voice boomed, laden with anger. "Idiot! Watch what you're doing."

A faint tremor lingered in Gale's voice as he stammered, "I'm sorry! I did not expect the reaction to be quite so volatile."

Their shadows flickered in the bluish glow as the group emerged from the secret chamber. Astarion watched from the safety of the desk, his body tense. Durge led the way, his armored frame radiating fury. The dragonborn's face was twisted in a snarl, his lips pulled back to reveal sharp teeth as he growled, "Well, that was a waste of a perfectly good pixie corpse. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother keeping you around, mage."

Gale trailed behind Durge, his head bowed low, his shoulders trembling slightly. Even from his hiding spot, Astarion could see the bruise-like shadows beneath Gale's downcast eyes and the tight clench of his hands at his sides.

Shadowheart stepped up beside Durge, her voice calm, almost mocking in its practicality. "Let's just take the moonlantern we already have and head to the mausoleum. You can punish the wizard for his failure later... I'll even help you this time if you like."

Durge's tail flicked in irritation, but he said nothing more. The group moved as a single, oppressive entity, their boots thudding against the stone as they filed out of the workshop. When the last of them passed through the doorway, the secret wall groaned shut, sealing the room once again.

Astarion didn't move immediately. He counted each breath, listening for even the faintest hint of a lingering presence. The stillness pressed against him, broken only by the faint scurrying of rats taking advantage of the abundant flesh.

Slowly, he crept out from under the desk, unfolding his body with a quiet grace born of centuries of careful movement. Straightening, he brushed dust from his clothes and scanned the room.

"I think it's safe now," he said softly, glancing over his shoulder.

Rolan and Ashara emerged moments later. Rolan's steps were heavier, his tail flicking in agitation as he fixed Astarion with a glare. "I never figured a vampire for a coward," he spat, his voice low but brimming with contempt.

Astarion turned, his expression hardening. Irritation flickered behind his crimson eyes. "Oh, knock it off, Rolan," he said, his voice cold but controlled. "We were outnumbered and outmatched ten to one. Charging out like a reckless fool would have ended with all of us dead - or worse."

Rolan's scowl deepened, but Astarion raised a hand, silencing whatever retort the tiefling was about to deliver. "The only way we stand a chance at taking on Durge and his merry band of thugs is if we pick them off one by one."

Astarion adjusted the fit of his cloak, his movements brisk and precise. He turned toward the door leading out of the workshop, his voice sharp as he added, "If we stick to the shadows and keep an eye on them, we might be able to orchestrate such a scenario. For now, though, let's get out of this chamber of horrors before something worse than them shows up."

He moved toward the exit, his steps barely making a sound on the stone. Behind him, Rolan muttered something unintelligible under his breath, but Astarion didn't look back. Ashara followed without a word, her expression set, though her eyes flicked between Rolan and Astarion with quiet scrutiny.

Astarion reached for the door, his fingers brushing the rough wood just as it swung open, forcing him to freeze. The figure in the doorway mirrored his shock, a wide-eyed Gale framed in the faint glow of the hallway torches.

The wizard's lips parted, perhaps to speak, but Astarion's sharp instincts overtook him. The hallway stretched behind Gale, empty and still. In a breathless heartbeat, his decision snapped into place.

His hand shot out, fingers curled around the humans throat in a viper's strike. The skin beneath his hand felt warm, pulsing with fragile life. He yanked him into the room with a violent tug, the door slamming shut behind them with a muffled crack.

Astarion spun, his momentum twisting their bodies. He slammed Gale into the floorboards, the wizard's head hitting the ground with a dull thud, his expression shifting from surprise to panic.

Leaning in close, his pale face inches from Gale's, Astarion's bared his fangs. A dark temptation stirred in him, but his senses recoiled. The wizard's scent carried an undercurrent of something foul, something wrong. His lips curled in disgust. No, fangs wouldn't do. He tightened his grip on Gale's neck, feeling a pulse fluttering like a trapped bird under his fingers.

The wizard's face flushed crimson, veins spidering along his temples. His hands clawed at Astarion's iron grip, nails raking over pale skin. Between strangled breaths, Gale rasped a single word. "Wait!"

Behind him, Ashara moved into view, her voice pleading. "Astarion, stop! You don't have to kill him - just restrain him."

Astarion didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on Gale's reddening face. "No," he hissed, his voice low, urgent. "He's infected, like me. If he calls for help with the tadpole, the rest will be on top of us before we know it."

His fingers dug deeper, the pressure unrelenting. Gale's thrashing weakened, his hands dropping away, the man's lips tinged with blue. Then a new sensation hit Astarion like a blow - an invasive cry tearing through his mind, desperate and raw.

"Astarion! Please... stop! I'm not your enemy!"

The intrusion made Astarion snarl, a guttural sound ripping from his throat. "Get out of my head," he growled, his grip faltering.

Gale's hand jerked up, trembling. Astarion caught the faint glow in his peripheral vision a moment too late. Fire erupted from Gale's palm. Astarion threw himself sideways as a bolt of flame scorched past his face, the heat grazing his skin. The spell struck a beam in the ceiling, shattering wood in a rain of splinters and embers.

Astarion rolled and sprang to his feet. His dagger hissed free of its sheath, its blade gleaming wickedly in the dim light. He turned to see Gale sprawled on his side, coughing and gasping like a beached fish. The wizard's bloodshot eyes flicked to the weapon in Astarion's hand, and he weakly tried to push himself upright.

Astarion didn't give him the chance. He lunged, his blade driving downward in a swift, merciless arc. Gale collapsed under him, his back slamming against the floorboards again. The dagger sank into flesh with a sickening crunch, meeting resistance before punching through muscle and bone. Gale's cry of agony was sharp, ragged, his hands flying up to seize Astarion's wrists.

Blood bloomed around the wound, spreading in dark, warm tendrils across the wizard's chest as Astarion leaned in, the dagger pinning Gale to the floor like a butterfly on a board. The wizard's wide eyes stared up at him, tears streaking his face. There was no anger in them, only fear - desperate, helpless fear.

Gale's trembling fingers fumbled at his belt, finding a small pouch. With a weak, jerking motion, he shoved it into Astarion's chest. "Bring... back..." his voice rasped, blood bubbling at his lips. "I beg you..."

The wizard shuddered once before the hand on Astarion's wrist slackened, the pouch slipping from his fingers to rest on his now-still chest. Astarion stared at the fallen wizard, his own breath ragged, shoulders rising and falling as a storm churned within him. The dagger, still embedded in Gale's chest, felt heavier than it should have.

Ashara knelt beside him, her fingers pressing against Gale's neck. Her voice was soft but certain. "He's gone."

Astarion let the words sink in before spitting, "Good."

Yet the satisfaction he expected didn't come. Instead, unease coiled in his stomach, his mind circling around Gale's final plea. His hand lingered on the hilt of the dagger, uncertain, even as his lips twisted into a mask of defiance.

Astarion pulled the dagger free from Gale's chest, blood seeping from the wound and slicking his blade. The motion was sharp, decisive, but his breath caught when the air beside him shimmered. He turned, his body coiled to strike, as the light began to coalesce into a form. His dagger hovered mid-motion as the glow solidified into the familiar figure of Gale.

But not the Gale he had just killed. This Gale stood upright, unscathed, garbed in a pristine purple robe that shimmered faintly with arcane light. His face wore a genial smile, the kind Astarion had learned to distrust. For a moment, the room fell silent save for the sound of blood dripping onto the wooden floor.

The ghostly Gale raised a hand in greeting, his voice carrying an almost jovial tone. "Well met! I am a magical projection of Gale of Waterdeep, and if you are viewing this manifestation, that means I have prematurely perished. However, for reasons that cannot be disclosed, it is of vital importance that my death be remedied at your earliest convenience. You may rest assured that I do not speak out of self-preservation alone: many lives depend on my return to the living within the span of two days. I trust I have made myself clear?"

Astarion's crimson gaze flicked to the body on the floor, his lips curling in irritation. "Unsummon yourself, echo. Before I find a way to kill you twice."

The spectral Gale's expression didn't waver, but there was a faint edge to his response. "A grave error in judgment indeed, which we'll pretend was never spoken."

Ashara stepped closer, her brow furrowed, studying the apparition. Her voice carried the sharp curiosity of someone too intrigued to be cautious. "What do you mean, 'many lives depend on your return to the living'?"

The apparition spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. "That would be covered by the 'for reasons that cannot be disclosed' clause, so let's move on."

Astarion crouched beside Gale's corpse, his fingers plucking the oilskin pouch from the dead man's chest. He rose, the pouch dangling from his hand like bait. His voice turned cold. "No. Either you tell me right now, or I burn this - what I assume is important - pouch to ash."

The projection hesitated, his spectral form flickering faintly. His gaze dropped to his corporeal body sprawled on the floor. A frown deepened across his face as he leaned closer, squinting. "What in the sweet hells am I wearing? Is... is that a dog collar?"

Astarion smirked, tilting his head as he examined the corpse. "The latest in evil sycophant fashion, one assumes."

The apparition turned to him, scandalized. "Evil? What exactly has transpired since my creation?"

"Sorry to break it to you," Astarion said, his tone rich with mockery, "but your alter ego has thrown his lot in with a murdering bastard, who seems to be keeping you as his pet from the looks of things."

Ashara shifted uncomfortably, stepping forward as if to soften the blow. She gestured at the corpse, her tone more measured. "You - I mean he - was infected with an Illithid tadpole and joined a band of other victims."

"Victims," Astarion cut in with a scoff, the word biting and derisive.

Ashara shot him a pointed glare before continuing. "I get the impression Gale was just trying to survive and followed whoever would supply him with the magical artifacts he needed to alleviate some kind of... condition."

The spectral Gale turned his gaze back to Astarion, his translucent features darkening with suspicion. "From your tone - and the bloodied dagger in your hand - I take it you are the one responsible for my death?"

Astarion met his gaze without a flicker of guilt. "You gave me no choice. I couldn't risk you calling your 'master' for help."

The apparition folded his translucent hands behind his back, his form pacing with an agitated energy that made the faint edges of his projection waver. "This is most disturbing."

He halted abruptly, turning to face Astarion. His eyes locked with the vampire's, his voice calm but edged with urgency. "Whatever grievances you may have against me, I beseech you to set them aside for now. I am bending the rules by revealing this, but I believe it is necessary. It seems clear I have been forced into desperate measures. And once you know the truth, you may appreciate why."

Astarion tilted his head, his grip tightening on the pouch. His expression was unreadable, but his tone carried a dangerous softness. "Then you'd better hope your truth is worth telling.

The spectral Gale raised a hand, gesturing to the corpse. "Look yonder at my - disconcertingly exposed chest. The symbol you see is no mere display of inked vanity. It is a manifestation of something darker. Through a series of... mishaps I am not comfortable revealing, I ended up with a fragment of Netherese magic inside my body. This volatile orb hungers for raw magic, and if it is not sated - or if I die and am not resurrected within two days - the results could be... catastrophic."

Ashara turned sharply toward the apparition, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Catastrophic?"

The spectral Gale inclined his head gravely. "Put simply, the orb will erupt and leave a crater the size of Waterdeep."

Ashara blinked, her expression tight with suppressed worry as she turned to Astarion. "Is that big?"

Astarion tilted his head, one brow arching as he answered with detached amusement. "It's certainly bigger than this castle."

Ashara's face drained of color. "We need to bring him back now! Our friends could still be here in the dungeons..."

Astarion's gaze shifted to Gale's lifeless body. Anger coiled in his chest, tightening his throat. He stepped closer to the corpse, glaring down at it as his voice hissed between clenched teeth. "Oh, and I was the one who was a danger to the party?"

Without warning, he lashed out, his boot connecting savagely with Gale's ribs. "You were hiding this secret from us all, and yet you had the gall to go along with that demon when he condemned me to death for hiding that I was a vampire?!"

The apparition winced as though feeling the blow and raised a translucent hand. "Can I respectfully request that my remains not be damaged further, please?"

Astarion whirled on him, his dagger glinting in the faint light as he gestured with it. "You can rot for all I care. You say we have two days? Fine. Then we rescue our friends and put as much distance between us and this cursed place as possible. You can blow up and take the cult with you - a win-win as far as I'm concerned."

Gale's projection stood in stunned silence, his translucent form flickering faintly. When he spoke again, his tone carried a heavy sadness. "I can only beg forgiveness on Gale's behalf for whatever actions he has taken that have led you to despise him so. I only hope you are prepared to accept the consequences of destruction on such a scale - and that no innocents are caught in its wake."

The apparition straightened, bowing with grave finality. "I will dismiss myself, and trouble you no longer."

"Wait!" Ashara's voice rang out, her hands raised as she stepped toward the flickering projection. "Don't go just yet, please."

Gale's ghostly form stilled, a faint spark of hope rekindling in his expression as his gaze met hers.

Ashara turned, her gaze locking onto Astarion with a pleading intensity that made him stiffen. "Please. I don't want risk not being able to get everyone out on time. Not just here, but if Last Light is in danger too..."

Astarion looked away, his hand tightening around the dagger. He knew if he met her gaze for too long, he would give in, and the thought infuriated him. His eyes sought Rolan, his voice sharp. "Rolan, back me up here."

Rolan rubbed his neck, his brow furrowed as if weighing invisible scales. "I'm not sure... as much as I'm happy to see one of my family's murderers dead, I don't like the idea that we might be unleashing something so deadly. Who's to say the cultists might not use his corpse as a weapon if they find out about the orb?"

Exasperated, Astarion threw up his hands. "Then we obliterate his corpse."

The apparition's translucent head shook, his voice laced with tension. "Ah... that is not the wisest course of action. My body is akin to a vessel that currently contains the magic. If it were to be 'obliterated,' as you so charmingly put it, then the orb would be unleashed that much sooner."

Astarion turned back to the projection, his irritation palpable. "And what happens when we bring him back? If he wasn't going to call for reinforcements before, he certainly will once he wakes up and lays eyes on me again."

Ashara stepped forward, her hands outstretched in a calming gesture. "Then keep out of sight and I'll do it - but I honestly don't think he will. We all heard the way the dragonborn spoke to him. I suspect he might actually want to get away from Durge."

Astarion's eyes darted between Ashara and the shimmering projection of Gale. His chest tightened as her determined expression locked him in place. He shook his head, his voice heavy with frustration. "Oh no... I can see where this is heading, and the answer is no. Resurrecting him is one thing, but we are not letting him join us."

Rolan, standing at a safe distance but with arms crossed, grunted his agreement. "I'm with Astarion on this."

Astarion turned, his tone gaining a sharp edge as he gestured dismissively toward Rolan. "Thank you. See? Even the halfwit drunk thinks it's a bad idea."

Rolan's eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward, his shoulders squared. "Hey! I've been sober for the past few hours, jerk."

Astarion gave a mocking bow, his lips curling into a smirk. "My apologies." He straightened and shifted his attention back to Ashara. "See? Even the halfwit thinks it's a bad idea."

Rolan's fists clenched, his jaw tightening as he took another step closer. Astarion barely noticed, his focus pinned on Ashara's steadily advancing form. She interceded, her smaller frame a barrier between the two men. Her eyes locked on Astarion's with a fire that made him pause.

"Astarion, please," she said softly, but with unyielding conviction. She turned, gesturing toward Gale's prone form, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. "Look at him. He's clearly been abused. Durge has him dressed in practically nothing and there are bruises all over his body. He's wearing a damn collar, for pity's sake!"

Astarion's lip twitched, and the faintest smirk broke through his irritation. "Remind me to explain kinks to you one day."

Rolan snorted, choking out a laugh before quickly disguising it as a cough. Ashara's brow furrowed in confusion, her eyes darting between them.

"I can assure you," Gale's projection interjected, his tone tinged with indignation, "I didn't have that kind the last time I checked."

Astarion caught the questioning look on Ashara's face and hastily redirected the conversation before it could veer further into awkward territory. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice steady but firm, "but I don't want to risk having someone with us who might give away our location to Durge."

Ashara's eyes softened, and she stepped closer, her voice lowering. "You've been in his position, Astarion. Wouldn't you have jumped at the chance to escape Cazador, if only someone had offered you one?"

Her words struck him like a blade finding a crack in armor. He held her gaze, feeling the weight of her appeal pressing against the walls he'd so carefully built. His gaze drifted reluctantly to Gale's body, and for the first time, he allowed himself to truly see it.

The wizard's pale skin was marred with bruises, his frame gaunt, ribs visible beneath the flimsy leather straps across his chest. His face was sharper, thinner - deprivation carved into every hollow.

This wasn't the self-assured scholar Astarion remembered. Gale had been reduced to a shadow of himself. The marks of humiliation and fear were all too familiar. Astarion knew what desperation bred in men. Would Gale embrace freedom, or would he flee back to his tormentor, unable to bear the weight of the unknown?

Astarion sighed, the sound carrying the weight of reluctant acceptance. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. "Fine. But if this ends badly, don't come crying to me."

Straightening, he turned to Rolan, his voice sharp with command. "Tie his hands behind his back. I don't want any more loose cantrips flying about. And let's assume, from this point on, that Durge and his party are coming for us. Pick a defensive position and prepare for anything."

Ashara's face lit up with a wide, radiant smile. She stepped closer, her hand brushing lightly against his arm. Her voice dropped to a whisper, warm and sincere. "Thank you."

For a brief moment, the tension in his chest loosened. He huffed, shaking his head as he turned away, muttering, "You'd better hope this is worth it."


Relief bloomed in Ashara's chest, warmth spreading through her like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She exhaled softly, the tension in her shoulders easing as Astarion, at last, gave in.

Turning to the spectral figure of Gale, she straightened, her resolve hardening. "Okay, let's do this. How do we revive him?"

The apparition's translucent hands came together in a theatrical clap, his face alight with satisfaction. "Excellent! I am so pleased you have finally seen sense. Now, the pouch your friend holds in his hand is a magical item capable of accomplishing my return. However, due to its extraordinary value and rarity, it is protected by a multi-layered security protocol. I will now explain the protocol—"

Astarion groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "Oh gods, I can already see this is going to be a disaster."

Ashara shot him a sharp look but kept her focus on Gale. The projection, undeterred, continued as though uninterrupted. "You must unthread the purple seam that seals the pouch, and you must do so in a counter-clockwise fashion. Under no circumstances should you touch any other colored strand. Inside the pouch, you will find two items: a folded letter and a tiny flute. Unfold the letter, and note the markings in the top and bottom corners. These markings represent musical notes. Starting from the bottom right, play the notes in the correct order - clockwise this time."

Ashara nodded, her fingers twitching slightly in anticipation. "I can play the flute, so I'll take care of that part."

Gale inclined his head, his tone turning almost professorial. "Upon completion of the melody, a magma mephit will appear. It will pose the following question: I'ss k'cha t'chiss n'aga? This is Ignan for 'What is my name?' The correct answer is K'ha'ssji'trach'ash. Pronounce it accurately, and the mephit will breathe on the letter. A word of caution: stay clear, as the little rascal's breath can melt metal. Afterward, words will appear on the letter, transforming it into a Scroll of True Resurrection. Use the scroll to bring me back to life."

The apparition clasped his hands again, as if concluding a lecture, and glanced expectantly at them.

"That's the most ridiculously convoluted protocol I've ever heard," Astarion muttered, his dagger still loosely gripped at his side.

Gale's spectral eyebrows arched in indignation. "I think ingenious is the word you're looking for. Now, repeat my instructions back to me, please."

Astarion blinked, incredulous. "You're joking."

"Not at all," Gale said, unruffled. "Humor me. This is, after all, my life on the line."

Ashara cut in before Astarion could escalate, her tone calm but firm. "Don't worry, I got it. Seams, notes, names - the lot."

"Excellent," Gale said. "In that case, this will be an easy exercise. Step one?"

Astarion groaned again, drawing out the sound for effect. "Fine, I'll play along. Step one: retrieve the pouch. Step two, unthread the yellow seam in a counter-clockwise fashion."

Rolan, standing with arms crossed, snorted. "Purple seam, you donkey."

Astarion rounded on him with a sharp glare. "Piss off! I was messing with him."

"The purple seam, indeed," Gale said, his tone studiously neutral. "You then have access to the letter and the flute. Continue."

Ashara interjected quickly, cutting off any further bickering. "I play the notes starting at the bottom right corner."

"And clockwise," Gale emphasized. "Then?"

Rolan hesitated before speaking. "A mephit appears, and we say its name: K'ha'ssji'trach'ash."

"Correct!" Gale said, with the air of a teacher whose student had just passed a test. "But pay attention to the 'trach' part. Chhh. Back of the throat. Best of luck with the protocol! May my cold, dead hands soon be refilled with the warmth of life so they can shake yours in gratitude."

His attention shifted to Ashara, and for a moment, the light in his spectral form seemed to burn brighter. He stepped closer, his gaze locking with hers. "And please, when I return... if I have truly strayed so far from decency and goodness, I ask that you help me find my way back."

Ashara felt an ache in her chest as she looked at him. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that made it impossible to refuse. Without thinking, she extended her hand toward him, her fingers brushing through empty air. She faltered at the lack of contact but recovered quickly, smiling warmly instead. "I will. I promise."

Gale's projection nodded deeply, gratitude etched into his translucent features. He stepped back, bowing low in an elegant motion. "Thank you."

And with a faint shimmer, he winked out of existence, leaving the room feeling colder, emptier. Ashara clenched her fists, the weight of what lay ahead settling on her shoulders.

Rolan worked in silence, his hands steady as he wound a rope tightly around Gale's wrists, binding them behind the wizard's limp body. He hauled the corpse upright, leaning it against the desk with a grunt. Astarion, meanwhile, melted into the shadows near the door, his pale fingers resting on the hilt of his sword as he listened out for any sounds beyond it.

Ashara knelt, cradling the oilskin pouch Astarion had handed her. She ran her fingers over its worn surface, taking a steadying breath before carefully unthreading the purple seam in the counter-clockwise manner Gale had described. The stitches gave way smoothly, revealing a tightly rolled parchment and a delicate bone flute. The flute's intricate carvings glimmered faintly in the dim light, and Ashara allowed herself a brief moment of admiration before shaking herself back to the task.

Unfurling the parchment, she read the notations at the corners, her lips silently forming the notes. She raised the flute to her lips and began to play. The tune was simple but haunting, each note lingering in the air like an echo of something ancient and lost. As the final note faded, the air in front of her shimmered with a sudden burst of heat, and a figure erupted into existence.

The magma mephit hovered before her, its leathery, bat-like wings beating rapidly as its molten skin glowed faintly. It was a twisted, impish creature, with jagged horns and claws like obsidian blades. Its burning gaze swept over Ashara suspiciously, and it screeched, its voice a series of harsh, guttural clicks: "I'ss k'cha t'chiss n'aga?"

Ashara sat up straighter, meeting the creature's gaze with calm confidence. "K'ha'ssji'trach'ash," she said firmly.

The mephit let out a sharp, grating laugh as it spun in a tight circle, then opened its wide, toothy maw. Instinctively, Ashara leaned back, holding the parchment away from her body as a searing jet of heat washed over it. The mephit's breath ignited a faint golden glow on the page, letters forming as if scrawled by an invisible hand.

The mephit straightened, fixing her with a glare before spitting out in surprisingly clear Common, "Tell the fecking wizard to stop pegging it. I'm getting ruddy sick of this job."

With that, it vanished in a puff of ash and smoke, leaving the room heavy with the lingering smell of sulfur.

Ashara's eyes dropped to the parchment in her hands, now radiating a faint, golden light. A Scroll of True Resurrection. She swallowed hard, her throat tight as a wave of emotion surged through her. How many times had she dreamed of holding such a thing when her adoptive father had died? The weight of it was overwhelming, and for a moment, she was still, lost in the bittersweet ache of what could never be changed.

Shaking herself free of the memory, she turned toward Gale's body. Her footsteps were soft as she crossed the room, kneeling beside him. Her eyes lingered on the jagged wound in his chest. It was brutal, messy, and the sight of it made her wince. Would he still feel it when he woke?

She held the scroll aloft, gripping it tightly and began to read the incantation aloud. Her voice deepened, each word carrying an otherworldly resonance as the magic took hold. The parchment disintegrated in her hands, the golden light flowing outward and enveloping Gale's body. The light grew brighter, wrapping around him like a cocoon, and she watched in awe as the wound on his chest began to close. The torn flesh knit together, leaving behind smooth, unbroken skin.

The glow faded, and silence descended. Ashara's chest tightened with panic as doubt clawed at her. Had she done something wrong? Had she misread the spell? Her heart raced as she stared at Gale's still form, her breath catching in her throat.

Then, with a sudden jolt, Gale's chest heaved, and he let out a deep, ragged gasp. His eyes snapped open, wide and wild, and he coughed violently as air flooded his lungs. His bound hands jerked against the rope as he struggled to sit up, his movements frantic. His gaze darted around the room before landing on Ashara, and his mouth opened as if to speak.

Before he could utter a word, Ashara leaned forward, pressing a hand over his mouth. "Don't contact Durge and the others, please!" she whispered, her voice urgent but gentle. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Gale's breath was hot against her palm, fast and panicked. His wide brown eyes softened after a moment, his breathing slowing as he nodded faintly. Ashara exhaled in relief, pulling her hand away.

He leaned back against the desk, his gaze shifting downward. His eyes landed on the flute still clutched in her hand, and his expression shifted to one of quiet wonder. "You... revived me," he rasped, his voice hoarse but full of disbelief.

He tilted his head back, letting it rest against the desk as he closed his eyes. "Thank the gods," he murmured, the tension draining from his face. For a moment, he was still, his breathing steadying, as though he were silently coming to terms with his own return.

Gale jerked upright, his bound hands straining against the ropes as he scanned the room, his voice sharp and urgent. "The vampire... where is he?"

Ashara raised her hands, palms outward, in a calming gesture. "It's okay. He won't hurt you again."

From the shadowed corner of the room, a smooth, mocking voice rang out. "Well... not too much, anyway."

Gale's breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling as his eyes widened in alarm. Ashara spun toward the darkness, her tone sharp with irritation. "I thought we agreed you'd stay out of this?"

The silence that followed was damning, but Ashara had no time to confront him further. Movement beside her drew her attention, and her stomach twisted as she realized Rolan had stepped forward. He was tense, his eyes alight with fury, and his sword was drawn, the blade trembling slightly as he pointed it at Gale's chest.

"Now that you're alive again," Rolan said, his voice low and brimming with cold malice, "I can have the pleasure of killing you myself."

Ashara shot to her feet, positioning herself between them. Her voice was sharp, commanding, leaving no room for argument. "Rolan, don't you dare! We didn't bring him back just so you could take your revenge."

Behind her, Gale's breathing hitched audibly. He swallowed hard before whispering, "Rolan... the young mage from the grove."

Rolan's expression hardened further, his grip on the sword tightening. "Oh, so you remember me, do you?" His voice was like a razor's edge cutting through the room.

Before Ashara could stop him, Rolan shoved her aside with surprising force, grabbing Gale by one of the thin straps crossing his chest. He hauled the man to his feet, forcing him upright, and pressed the edge of his sword to Gale's throat. The sword glinted dangerously in the dim light, close enough to draw blood if Gale so much as breathed wrong.

"Then you should remember the two that were with me," Rolan snarled, his teeth bared. "My brother and sister. The ones you helped murder."

Ashara felt the air in the room grow taut, thick with tension that threatened to snap like an overdrawn bowstring. Even Astarion had moved closer now, standing beside her with one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His expression was unreadable, but she could sense the coiled energy in him, ready to act if the situation spiraled out of control.

Gale's gaze held Rolan's, steady despite the blade pressed against his skin. His voice was quiet, hoarse, but filled with something raw. "Cal and Lia."

Rolan's eyes flickered, surprise breaking through his rage for a brief moment. Gale didn't stop.

"I remember them," he continued, his voice cracking as his guilt spilled out. "I remember them all. Every face. Every tiefling and druid we killed. They haunt me every single night."

The sword at Gale's throat trembled, the blade pulling back slightly as Rolan's grip faltered. Ashara seized the moment, stepping forward and placing her hand gently over Rolan's. Her voice softened, no less firm but filled with empathy. "Please, Rolan. This won't bring them back."

Rolan's jaw clenched, his muscles taut beneath her touch. His chest heaved with the force of his breathing, the rage within him battling against something deeper.

Astarion's voice cut through the tension like a cold wind. "So, you admit you made the wrong call when you chose to follow that monster?"

Gale turned his gaze to Astarion, meeting the vampire's eyes without flinching. His voice was steady, heavy with self-recrimination. "I'll admit to that and more, but I suspect my sins are too many to count by this point. The road to my damnation began the moment I allowed fear to overwhelm my conscience - when I stood by and let Durge sell you to the Gur hunter."

Ashara's breath caught at the admission, and she glanced at Astarion. For the first time, she saw a crack in his carefully composed mask. His crimson eyes widened, his lips parting slightly in shock. It was brief, a flicker of raw emotion that disappeared almost as quickly as it had surfaced. He recovered with practiced precision, his expression hardening once more into his usual detached coolness.

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of truths spoken and unspoken pressing down on them all. Ashara glanced between them - Rolan, whose hand still trembled on the hilt of his sword; Astarion, whose aloof posture couldn't quite hide the storm behind his eyes; and Gale, standing broken but unflinching, his guilt laid bare for all to see.

Gale's head dipped, his voice low and heavy with remorse. "I only used defensive spells during the attack on the grove, rationalizing that any who died by my hand were only those who chose to attack me. I tried to convince myself that everything we did that day was just about survival."

He lifted his head, his gaze meeting theirs with a hollow, haunted expression. "But that had nothing to do with survival. It was a massacre - no two ways about it. May Mystra forgive me."

His focus shifted to Rolan. "I can't undo what's been done. I can only try to make amends, to pay the price for my weakness."

Rolan's expression hardened, his grip tightening on the hilt. "Not even your death could make up for what you've done," he spat, pushing the blade closer until it broke the skin. A thin line of blood trickled down Gale's neck. "But it will be a start..."

The tension in the room crackled like a storm about to break. Astarion's voice cut through it, calm but edged with warning. "Rolan... don't."

Gale's voice remained steady, though his eyes carried the weight of a man resigned to his fate. "You're right. My death will balance the scales only a little, but I still intend to give it to you. Just not here. And not now."

Ashara stepped forward, her brows furrowed in concern. "What do you mean?"

Gale shifted slightly, the ropes at his wrists creaking as he straightened. "I can't explain fully. Just know that I intend to find the heart of the Absolute and destroy it. Along with myself, and every cultist within range - including Durge if possible."

Rolan hesitated, the sword wavering slightly as realization dawned. "The orb," he said slowly. "You plan to unleash it on the cult, don't you?"

Gale's eyes widened slightly in alarm. "How do you know about the orb?"

Astarion leaned casually against the desk, his smirk sharp as a blade. "Your simulacrum was a bit of a blabbermouth."

"Dammit!" Gale muttered, his frustration evident as his bound hands flexed against the ropes. "I knew I should've put more safeguards in place. He should not have revealed so much."

"Lucky for you, he did," Rolan muttered. After a moment of tense silence, he sighed and lowered his sword, sheathing it with a sharp metallic hiss. His hand released the strap on Gale's chest, and the wizard staggered slightly, catching himself against the desk.

Rolan's voice was still cold, but some of the venom had drained from it. "Ashara's right. Killing you here won't bring them back. But maybe they can be avenged, if you destroy Durge and the cult..."

Rolan turned sharply and strode toward the door leading out to the balcony. His shoulders were stiff, his movements quick and purposeful. Ashara's eyes followed him, understanding his need for air, for a moment away from the suffocating stench of decay that clung to the necromancer's workshop. The smell of rot, burnt flesh, and acrid magic was becoming unbearable even for her.

She felt a flicker of relief at Rolan's restraint, but her stomach churned at his words. She hated the implication that Gale's only redemption lay in a suicidal act of vengeance. She hated even more that Gale seemed ready to accept it. But now wasn't the time to dwell on what might happen later. The immediate danger was far from over. She shifted her weight, turning back toward Astarion, who had been uncharacteristically silent.

He stood motionless beside her, his crimson eyes locked on Gale with an intensity that made Ashara uneasy. His face was unreadable, but something simmered beneath the surface - a tightly coiled tension. Suddenly, Astarion moved, stepping forward with a swift grace that sent Ashara's heart hammering. The dagger in his hand gleamed in the dim light, its edge catching the faint flicker of candlelight.

Ashara's heart leapt into her throat, and she instinctively moved to intervene. "Astarion, no!"

Gale flinched, his body tensing as his gaze darted to the blade. But before either of them could react further, Astarion grabbed Gale's shoulder and spun him around. With a quick, fluid motion, he sliced through the bindings on the mans wrists. The severed rope fell to the ground, and Gale turned back to face Astarion, rubbing his raw wrists with an expression caught between confusion and cautious gratitude.

"Thank you..." Gale said softly, his voice tentative.

Astarion gave the faintest nod, his face as impassive as stone. Without another word, he walked back to his post near the door, his arms crossing as he leaned against the frame. His gaze turned outward, listening intently for any signs of movement beyond the room.

Ashara frowned, puzzled by Astarion's sudden act of kindness. Whatever was happening in his head was a mystery she didn't have the luxury to unravel right now. Gale's voice pulled her attention back.

"I convinced Durge to allow me another attempt at creating a second moonlantern. While I do have a little time, it won't be long before my absence is noticed. If there's anything else you need of me, please tell me now."

Ashara stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she spoke. "Our friends were captured by Durge out in the Shadowlands. Do you know what happened to them? Are they in the dungeons?"

Gale nodded grimly. "More than likely. I must admit, I was surprised to see Karlach still alive. She's... certainly resilient. Durge brought them as an offering, a gift to ensure a warm reception from the leader of the Absolutists - General Ketheric Thorm."

Ashara felt her stomach drop at the mention of the name. "Is he really immortal?" she asked.

"I witnessed him take two fatal blows," Gale replied, his tone somber. "One through the heart, the other severing an artery in his neck. Both wounds closed within moments, as if they were nothing more than mild inconveniences. Durge's current mission is to retrieve a relic for him, something of immense importance. If I had to guess, it's likely tied to his immortality."

Astarion, still leaning casually against the doorframe, let out a low hum of interest. "And what does Durge plan to do with this relic, if he finds it?"

"The same thing you would, I imagine - destroy it," Gale replied.

Astarion raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. "Then our goals are aligned - for now. We've been sent on a similar mission by... other interested parties."

Gale hesitated, his expression darkening. "He claims to be seeking a cure for the tadpoles, but I can't shake the feeling there's something more sinister in his plans. Whatever Durge's endgame is, I doubt it aligns with anyone else's but his own."

"Now there's a shock," Astarion muttered, folding his arms tighter across his chest.

Ashara frowned, her mind racing. "Do you think he intends to take control of the cult for himself?"

"It's what I would do," Astarion interjected smoothly, his smirk deepening as he watched her reaction.

Ashara's head snapped toward him, her eyes wide with alarm. "Astarion, please tell me you're joking."

"Who's to say?" he replied, his tone dripping with mockery. "Just an observation."

Gale cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. "We can save the speculation for another time. For now, I need to return to my companions. If you keep watch from this balcony, you'll see us leave for the Thorm family mausoleum. That's where the relic is hidden. Once we're gone, as a True Soul, you should be able to move about uncontested."

Ashara's mind raced, calculating their next steps, but before she could respond, a thought surfaced. She hesitated, then said, "Once our friends are safe... you could leave Durge. You could join us. I've got a ton of magical artifacts for you to snack on."

Gale blinked, and for the first time, a faint smile broke through his somber demeanor. "I don't physically eat the artifacts."

Ashara's cheeks flushed, and she stammered, "Oh... Karlach made it sound like you did."

Astarion chuckled softly. "Because she realized you're adorably gullible."

Ashara scowled, though the heat in her cheeks didn't abate. She opened her mouth to retort but stopped when she caught the glimmer of amusement in Astarion's eyes. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but it eased some of the tension in the room.

Gale suddenly stiffened, his body going rigid like a wire drawn taut. He whirled to face Astarion, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Wait a moment... how are you even still alive? You're still tadpoled, but haven't been anywhere near the gith artifact."

Astarion's smirk spread slowly across his face, sharp and full of condescension. "Finally dawned on you, did it?" he said, tilting his head.

He straightened, his posture shifting into a mockery of grandeur, and gave a theatrical bow. "Behold, the dangerous 'threat to your party' that not only found a way to suppress ceremorphosis but also uncovered a cure for the parasite."

Ashara raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look, but Astarion simply grinned back at her, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

Gale's voice rose, incredulous. "What?! How? Where?"

Astarion purred, his tone dripping with mockery. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Gale stepped closer, his voice taut with urgency. "I would, very much so."

Ashara interjected before the conversation spiraled. "One part of the cure needs Halsin. The other... is a secret, until I know I can trust you more."

Gale's face darkened, anger flashing in his eyes. "Halsin already admitted he couldn't remove the parasites."

Ashara met his gaze evenly, her tone firm but not unkind. "He's right - he can't. Not on his own. My... friend is the one who can suppress the arcane tampering done to the parasites. Halsin simply assists with the healing side of things."

Astarion added casually, "Ask Karlach if you don't believe us. She got her little stowaway removed. Happy as a one-armed clam now."

Ashara glanced at him in confusion. "Clams don't have - oh. Sarcasm?"

"Hyperbole."

"Huh?"

A loud thump interrupted them as Gale's legs seemed to give out beneath him, and he sat abruptly on the desk. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers catching on the tangles. For a moment, he simply stared at his hands, his expression distant, lost in the swirl of emotions that played across his face.

Finally, he looked up at Ashara, hesitant, the faintest flicker of hope glimmering in his eyes like a fragile flame. "Are... are you quite serious about your offer to join you?"

Ashara tilted her head slightly, her voice soft but steady. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Gale's throat worked as he swallowed, his shoulders tense. "But I... after what I've done... why?"

Ashara glanced at Astarion, whose arms were folded lazily across his chest. He gave her a nonchalant shrug, clearly unconcerned with the wizard's self-doubt.

Turning back to Gale, she met his eyes, her tone empathetic. "Because, I think you need someone to give you a second chance. And because I made a promise to the ghost version of you that I'd set you back on the right path."

Gale blinked, momentarily confused. "That... that illusion isn't even fully sentient."

Ashara shrugged, her lips quirking into a small, wry smile. "I never break a promise, no matter who or what it's made to."

Gale turned to Astarion as though seeking some validation. The vampire smirked, his fangs flashing slightly. "Don't look at me. I already recruited one wizard. I personally think she just wants one of her own."

Ashara scowled, folding her arms across her chest. "That's not the reason why, and you know it."

Turning back to Gale, she softened again. "I'm being serious. If you need to escape from Durge, I can offer you sanctuary. But in order to offer you a cure for the parasite, I need to find my friends first."

Gale let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of his guilt and despair had finally become too much. Ashara noticed the faint shimmer in his eyes before he turned away abruptly, bracing himself on the desk with one hand while the other clutched his head. His shoulders began to tremble, and Ashara's stomach twisted as she realized, with dismay, that he was crying.

The raw, broken sound of his quiet sobs filled the room, a sharp contrast to the weight of silence that had come before. Ashara froze, unsure for a moment how to respond. Even Astarion shifted uncomfortably, his usual air of detachment faltering as his gaze flicked toward the wizard.

Finally, Ashara reached out, her hand hovering before she rested it gently on his shoulder. He flinched at her touch but didn't pull away. His voice broke as he stammered, "Forgive me, I don't know quite what's come over me."

Astarion's voice came unexpectedly, quiet but laced with dry amusement. "I do. It's called hope, my dear fellow. And it hurts like hell the first time you reach for it."

Ashara turned to look at him, startled by the unexpected sincerity in his words. He caught her eye, and a faint, knowing smile played at the corner of his lips. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but it carried a weight that told her he understood more than he let on.

Gale cleared his throat, the sound rough and strained, as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. His composure was returning, bit by bit, though his eyes were still red-rimmed.

"If I could," he began, his voice steadier now, "I would throw caution to the wind and join you right now. But you need Durge out of Moonrise in order to successfully infiltrate the ranks of the Absolute. My defection now could cause all manner of complications for you."

He straightened, his posture more solid as he turned toward the door. Each step seemed more deliberate than the last, as though he were building up his resolve with every motion. "So, I will continue to play my part for as long as it is necessary. I'll find a way to keep you apprised of our movements. Once you have successfully freed your companions—"

Ashara cut him off, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "Then we come get you."

He paused mid-step, turning back to look at her. The faint light caught his face, and for the first time, Ashara saw something unguarded - relief, hope, a fragile brightness that hadn't been there before. His lips curved into a faint smile as he dipped his head in a small bow.

"Fate may yet smile upon me," he said softly. "For I can think of no other reason for it to send me such a savior."

Before Ashara could respond, Astarion's voice broke in, sardonic as ever as he moved to stand beside her. "Fate has a funny sense of humor if you think a vampire, a drunk wizard, and a forest urchin qualify as 'saviors'."

From across the room, Rolan's voice carried through the air as he poked his head in from the balcony, his expression stormy. "For the last time, I'm not drunk!"

Astarion didn't even bother to look back, waving a dismissive hand as he sang out over his shoulder, "Nobody cares, Rolan. Go back to brooding."

Rolan spat back, "Go to hell," before retreating again, the sound of his muttered curses fading as he disappeared onto the balcony.

Ashara groaned, pressing her fingers to her temple. Her patience was wearing thin, the back-and-forth grating on her already frayed nerves. She turned to Gale, offering him an apologetic smile. "You might want to reconsider my offer."

Gale's lips quirked into a grin, the warmth in his eyes now unshaken by the chaos around him. "I assure you," he said with a faint chuckle, "it will take more than the bickering of companions to dissuade me."

Ashara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. There was something oddly grounding about his resolve, a steadiness that seemed to anchor the moment. Even with his burdens, Gale carried himself now as if the spark of hope had lit something within him, fragile but burning nonetheless.

She nodded, stepping aside as he moved toward the door. "Stay safe," she said, her voice quiet but genuine.

Gale paused at the threshold, glancing back at her, his gaze lingering. "And you," he replied, his tone softer now, almost reverent.

He reached for the door, his hand closing around the handle. Ashara felt her shoulders begin to relax, just slightly, as she watched him pull it open - only for every muscle in her body to freeze the moment she saw what lay beyond.

Standing in the doorway was Durge, his towering form framed by the faint glow of torchlight spilling in from the hallway. His armor was spattered with faint streaks of dried blood and his eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction. His smile, sharp and predatory, spread slowly across his face as his gaze roamed the room. It lingered on Gale for a beat too long before settling on Ashara and Astarion.

The silence that followed was suffocating, the kind that pressed against the chest and made it hard to breathe. Durge's voice broke it with a quiet, venomous precision.

"This is why you never let a wizard wander off on their own. They pick up all sorts of parasites."