The glowing pool dominated the chamber like a sunken star, its light rippling against the marble walls. Waterfalls flowed from unseen crevices in the high, vaulted ceiling, their echoes weaving through the oppressive silence. The statues of Shar, cold and impassive, loomed in a semi-circle around it. Their stony gazes bore down on the living, silent judges to an unseen ritual. The air was heavy, the faint tang of magic coiling through every breath.
Shadowheart knelt before the pool, her silhouette stark against the ethereal glow, head bowed and hands clasped in prayer. Ishta stood a few paces back, her arms folded, her ribs protesting each shallow inhale.
A quiet rustle at her side signaled Astarion's approach. He moved like a shadow, his voice low as it brushed against her ear. "Do you think this is going to take much longer? Only, I've got a devil to meet, and they're notoriously impatient."
Ishta turned her head slightly, fixing him with a mock-stern glare. "Let her have this," she murmured, her voice carrying just enough weight to caution.
Astarion sighed, leaning lazily against the nearest wall. "You do realize," he said, his tone laced with dry amusement, "that she might end up as a Dark Justiciar after all this? I'm not entirely sure how that aligns with our grand plans of survival."
A twinge of unease settled in Ishta's stomach. She nodded, her gaze drifting back to the kneeling Cleric. "I know. I'm just hoping we can gently convince her otherwise."
From her other side, Karlach leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Or not-so-gently... I can always knock her out and carry her back to camp."
Shadowheart's voice cut through the chamber like a blade, sharp and edged with irritation. "I can hear you. Shut up and let me concentrate."
Ishta, Astarion, and Karlach froze for half a heartbeat before murmuring in unison, "Sorry."
The awkward chorus drew a quiet grin from Ishta as her companions exchanged sheepish glances. She shook her head, leaning back against the cold stone wall with a soft wince. Every bruise and cut from their recent trials seemed to pulse in recrimination.
Beside her, Astarion mirrored her stance, his posture as relaxed as ever. "Well," he said, his tone light but edged with dry humor, "at least now I know what it's like to fight you."
Ishta wiped at the dried blood at the corner of her mouth, her expression wry. Her thoughts drifted to the Gauntlet's trials. One chamber had forced them to face shadowy replicas of themselves, each dark double wielding their strengths with merciless precision. It had been surreal - unnerving - to stare into her own face, twisted into something cold and predatory.
"Did you have to drive your sword into my duplicate's heart quite so... enthusiastically?" she asked, casting Astarion a sidelong glance.
His eyes gleamed with mischief as he shrugged, his lips curving into a mock-innocent smile. "It was rather cathartic. Who knew I had so much pent-up frustration against you?"
Karlach choked on a laugh but quickly smothered it with her fist. Ishta shot Astarion a raised brow, her expression hovering between exasperation and reluctant amusement.
"Shameless," she muttered.
"Oh, I do try," he replied, his grin unfaltering.
From the shadows, Minthara's voice carried, cold and measured. "Fighting you was as invigorating the second time as it was the first, Xindite."
Ishta turned, her gaze narrowing as she met the Drow's crimson eyes. "You thought having your ass handed to you back at the grove was… invigorating?"
Minthara's shoulders stiffened, her eyes narrowing. "I do not revel in defeat," she said, her voice tight. "But the battle itself was… memorable."
Ishta snorted softly. "If you say so. Just be glad my duplicate didn't take after my… other half."
Karlach's grin returned, sly and teasing. "Speaking of which - loving the fangs, soldier."
Ishta ran her tongue over the sharp edges of her canines, a grimace flickering across her face. The memory of her encounter with Araj and the transformation she'd undergone tightened her jaw. She hadn't had the time - or the energy - to rid herself of the cursed features since then.
"If it wasn't for the blinding headache that follows," she muttered, "I'd have taken pliers to them by now."
Karlach's hand landed on her shoulder, solid and grounding. "Don't," she said, her voice warm but firm. "I think you should keep them. They suit you."
Astarion shifted closer, his expression caught between amusement and something softer. "I've already told her that, Karlach. But apparently, my fangs don't make me a monster, but hers do." He gestured lightly toward her mouth, his tone taking on a pointed edge. "I'm not quite sure what makes hers so very terrible - they look perfectly fine to me."
Ishta's eyes returned to the water, watching the way it rippled gently, disturbed by nothing but its own unnatural energy. She hesitated, her voice quiet but clear. "I have to admit," she began, glancing toward the others, "the way you've all just accepted my dual nature has made me wonder why I was so reluctant to tell you about it in the first place."
Astarion arched a brow. "Well, in fairness, I was stabbed when I let slip I was a vampire. So, I don't blame you for being cautious."
Ishta turned her head sharply, fixing him with a flat stare. "Astarion, you were stabbed because you tried to bite Shadowheart while she was asleep."
He shrugged with practiced indifference, waving a hand as if brushing the memory away. "Same difference."
Ishta rolled her eyes, a huff escaping her lips as Karlach smothered another laugh. The tiefling shot her a knowing look, her grin breaking through anyway.
The faint clinking of chainmail drew Ishta's attention. Shadowheart rose to her feet, her movements deliberate, her eyes locked on the pool as if it held some unspoken truth. Without a word, she began to walk toward the water, her boots barely making a sound against the stone.
Karlach adjusted the strap of her greatsword over her shoulder, her tone casual but tinged with tension. "Looks like we're on the move again."
Astarion groaned theatrically, tugging on his cuirass. "There had better not be any more of these absurd trials. I think I've had my fill of existential torment for one lifetime."
Ishta ignored him, stepping forward to follow Shadowheart. Her boots scuffed softly against the damp floor as she closed the distance, stopping just at Shadowheart's side. The cleric stood at the edge of the pool, staring into its depths. The reflection of her face wavered in the glowing water, distorted by ripples that seemed to move of their own accord.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Ishta asked, her voice steady but quiet. Her eyes flicked to the ornate spear Shadowheart held in a white-knuckled grip, its intricate carvings glinting faintly in the eerie light. She nodded toward it. "Are you sure you can kill a Selûnite in cold blood, just for a ritual?"
Shadowheart's grip on the spear tightened, her jaw clenching as she spoke. "This place has been abandoned for centuries," she said, her voice firm but strained. Her eyes stayed on the water, avoiding Ishta's gaze. "It's probably just a symbolic sacrifice. A monster. Or… a reanimated corpse. Nothing we haven't killed before."
Ishta studied her, the tension in her shoulders, the way her words came a little too quickly. Despite the veneer of confidence, Shadowheart's eyes betrayed her, flickering with doubt as if she were trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.
The Cleric's gaze didn't waver from the water, but her lips pressed into a thin line, and for just a moment, her fingers loosened their grip on the spear. Then, as if catching herself, she straightened, her expression hardening once more.
"Let's finish this," she said, her voice sharper now, cutting through the silence like a blade. She stepped forward, the spear gleaming in her hand as she moved closer to the edge of the pool and strode in, her form rippling and blurring as she vanished into its depths.
Ishta hesitated only a moment, the glowing energy beckoning and menacing all at once, before following. The surface felt like nothing - no resistance, no wetness, no temperature - yet as she stepped fully into it, she was swallowed whole.
The darkness struck her like a fist. It wasn't just an absence of light - it was suffocating, heavy, alive. It slithered into every pore, pressing against her chest and wrapping around her throat. She struggled to breathe, the weight dragging her down, the air itself turning thick and unyielding. A sharp pressure built behind her eyes, her lungs burning, her thoughts scattering.
Then, nothing.
Ishta woke violently, gasping and heaving, her hands scraping against rough stone. The sharp, jagged surface beneath her palms brought her back to herself as she sucked in breath after breath, the darkness lingering in her lungs like a phantom.
Slowly, she pushed herself upright, her arms trembling. She blinked rapidly, her vision adjusting to the pale, ghostly light that bathed the fragmented landscape around her. The rocky platform beneath her felt unstable, as though it could crumble at any moment.
Around her, the others stirred. Karlach rolled onto her side with a groan, her massive frame shifting the loose stones. Astarion sat up slowly, shaking his head as he brushed grit from his clothes. Shadowheart knelt with her hands pressed into the ground, her expression stoic but her fingers trembling. Minthara was the last to rise, her crimson eyes narrowing as she took in their surroundings, her movements deliberate as she steadied herself.
Ishta stood, her legs shaky beneath her, and turned to face the strange, shattered world that stretched out before them. Her heart clenched at the sight.
The landscape was a jagged tapestry of floating rocks and crystalline spires, each piece suspended in the void by some unseen force. Pale blue veins of energy pulsed through the stones, casting an ethereal glow that reflected off jagged shards jutting from the platforms. Massive chains of black iron - each link as thick as a man's torso - stretched across the expanse, converging on a single point in the distance. There, above the swirling vortex of energy that churned like a storm below, a central platform floated. A glowing circle of intricate runes was etched into the rock, its light pulsing faintly, drawing the eye like a beacon.
Despite the oppressive gloom, Ishta felt a peculiar lightness in her limbs. The sensation reminded her of the astral plane - weightless and untethered. Experimenting, she bent her knees and pushed off the ground. Her body soared, lifting impossibly high before floating gently downward onto a nearby rock. She landed with an almost dreamlike softness, her boots scuffing against the surface.
Turning back, she called out, her voice echoing faintly. "Come on! It's… safe enough."
Karlach grinned despite the tension in her shoulders, pushing off with a powerful leap. She landed with a thud beside Ishta, her heavy boots grinding against the rocky surface. Astarion followed next, his movements precise, his form graceful even in such alien surroundings. Shadowheart hesitated for a moment before jumping, her grip tightening on the ornate spear in her hand as she landed with a quiet exhale. Minthara's approach was deliberate, her leap measured and controlled as she landed beside them, her sharp gaze sweeping the horizon.
Ishta's attention was drawn downward, her stomach churning as she peered into the vortex below. The swirling energy consumed everything, its tendrils of light and shadow twisting together in a chaotic dance. The chains connected directly to the floating platform above the vortex, their immense weight defying gravity as they stretched taut into the void.
"That central platform," Ishta murmured, her voice barely carrying over the faint hum of energy. Her eyes followed the lines of the chains to the glowing circle of runes. "It's all connected. Whatever's keeping this… place together, it's there."
Shadowheart gripped the spear tighter, her expression unreadable. "Then that's where we go," she said, her voice firm despite the tension in her jaw.
Astarion groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "Because of course it is. Nothing screams 'safe passage' like a glowing platform above a death vortex."
Karlach snorted, cracking her neck. "Come on, fangs. You love a good dramatic setup."
Minthara's voice cut through the banter, cold and sharp. "This place was not built for hesitation. If we linger, it may unmake us."
Ishta nodded, her gaze lingering on the glowing circle as unease prickled at the back of her neck. "Let's keep moving," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She bent her knees and leapt to the next floating rock, the others following close behind, the vortex below twisting and churning with a hunger that seemed almost sentient.
The group reached the glowing platform, their movements wary as the faint hum of energy in the runes pulsed stronger with each step. In the center of the circle crouched a figure, her form haloed by the eerie light radiating from the etched symbols. Ishta's breath caught as the woman slowly rose, her movements deliberate, heavy with restrained power.
She was tall, her body marked with jagged cracks that ran like dull gold veins across her skin, glowing faintly in the rune-light. Her muscular frame spoke of strength, but her ragged clothing and wild hair hinted at centuries of imprisonment. The air around her shimmered faintly, and every time she moved too quickly, spectral mage hands appeared, ghostly and translucent, wrapping around her limbs to restrain her. She glared at the group, her sharp, defiant gaze cutting through the tension.
Her voice carried across the platform, low and resonant. "I have felt you coming. The first in a century. You, who have come to seek the praise of your wicked goddess. You, who have come to drive a dagger through my heart."
Shadowheart held her ground, and Ishta could see her grip tighten on the spear she carried. Her voice was firm, though her breath hitched faintly before she spoke. "Not a dagger," she corrected, raising the weapon slightly. "A spear. My Lady Shar's spear."
The woman's lips curved into a sharp, humorless smile. "Well, well," she said, spreading her arms just enough for the spectral hands to jolt and tighten their grip, glowing faintly brighter before releasing her again. "A spear intended for my heart. Empowered by your goddess, aye - empowered to kill the child of a god." She stepped forward, and the mage hands surged upward, curling around her shoulders like chains, halting her. She barely seemed to notice, her defiant gaze never leaving Shadowheart. "Do you know what I am, little assassin? For I know you - a lost child, frightened by wolves in the dark."
Shadowheart flinched, her fingers tightening further around the spear's haft. "What did you say…?" Her voice was quieter now, her confidence faltering.
"Much has been promised to you, hasn't it?" the woman continued, her tone steady but with a quiet edge of pity. "But what has been taken from you? What do you know of your own heart - your own life? I sense more in you than you know."
Ishta stepped forward instinctively, her hand brushing the hilt of her weapon, her expression caught between confusion and wariness. "You're the Nightsong?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. "A person…?"
The Nightsong barely spared her a glance, her focus still on Shadowheart. "Shar kept you ignorant, did she?" she said, her tone sharp with derision. "Or was it Ketheric? Perhaps they forgot to tell you they'd make a murderer of you yet."
Ishta's eyes darted to Shadowheart, whose knuckles had gone white around the spear. She stepped closer, her voice softer but firm. "Shadowheart," she said, searching the cleric's face. "Are you sure you're prepared to go through with this? Is this truly what you want?"
Shadowheart's eyes darted to Ishta, searching her face for something - reassurance, clarity, perhaps both. "I… yes, I think so," she said, though her voice wavered. "My whole life's been leading to this. No turning back now."
The Nightsong laughed, the sound low and mocking as she spread her arms wide, the mage hands straining to keep her restrained. "Then do what you came to do, Sharran."
Shadowheart hesitated, the spear shaking slightly in her grip as she looked back at Ishta. Vulnerability cracked through her determined façade, her voice unsteady. "I… what do you think? What should I do?"
Ishta paused, her throat tightening. "I… I'm not sure I can make this decision for you, Shadowheart," she said carefully. Her gaze flicked to the Nightsong, whose defiance had softened into something more resigned. "I only know your goddess is asking you to strike down a trapped and helpless woman."
A flicker of annoyance crossed the Nightsong's face at the words, but it was quickly replaced by a look of weary acceptance. She remained silent, her gaze steady as Ishta continued. "This doesn't sit right with me… but in the end, this is your choice. I won't stop you, but I won't help you murder her either."
Shadowheart's breathing grew heavier as she stared at the Nightsong, her knuckles white on the spear. Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a long moment, the platform was silent save for the faint hum of the runes.
Then, with a sharp exhale, she opened her eyes and hurled the spear off the edge of the platform. It spun through the air before vanishing into the swirling vortex below. The Nightsong's eyes widened in surprise, her posture stiffening.
"I… I can't believe I just did that," Shadowheart whispered, her voice tinged with shock at her own actions.
Ishta stepped forward without hesitation, pulling Shadowheart into a fierce hug. "You have no idea how proud I am of you right now," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
Shadowheart squirmed slightly, coughing. "You're squeezing me too tight," she muttered, though her tone was softer than usual.
Ishta let go, a sheepish grin breaking through the tension. "Sorry," she said, brushing a hand through her hair. "Got a bit too enthusiastic there."
Shadowheart blushed faintly, turning away to hide her face. When she turned back, her expression was serious again. "Lady Shar will disown me," she said quietly. "What will happen to me now?"
The Nightsong stepped forward, the mage hands loosening slightly, though they did not release her entirely. "Not what will happen - what will you do," she said, her voice softer now, though it carried the weight of centuries. "Your past is not yet lost. Your future is not yet fixed. Lay a hand on me in friendship, not-quite-Sharran, and I will fight the battle that has been waiting for me this last century. Then - oh, then, we will have much to discuss."
Ishta's hand shot up, halting Shadowheart before she could respond. Her tone was sharp, cautious. "Hold on. There's a big difference between not killing you and freeing you. I'd like to know exactly who I'm dealing with first."
The Nightsong's gaze darkened briefly, her lips pressing into a thin line before she inclined her head in reluctant acknowledgment. "I'm sure you've met my mother. You've seen her pale face in the night sky - Selûne, the Moonmaiden."
Ishta's jaw went slack, the weight of Nightsong's words crashing down on her like a tidal wave. "You're Selûne's daughter? The Selûne?"
A faint twitch in Nightsong's expression hinted at amusement - what might have been a smile in a kinder world. "Is there another one?"
Ishta stared, her mind racing. The weight of what she was hearing clicked into place like a final piece in a puzzle. "If you're an immortal…" Her tone grew firmer. "Then we've just found the source of Ketheric's invulnerability."
Nightsong inclined her head, the faint glow of her golden cracks catching the runes' light. "This cage links us, like a parasite's fangs to its host. I am immortal; while I am trapped here, so is he. Free me, and Ketheric will bleed."
Behind Ishta, Astarion let out a delighted hum, his sharp grin gleaming in the faint light. "Music to my ears."
Ishta's brow furrowed as her gaze flicked to the spectral hands still clutching at Nightsong's wrists. "So… how do we free you?"
Nightsong's glowing eyes fixed on her, steady and unblinking. "Lay a hand upon me in camaraderie," she said, her tone carrying an almost sacred weight, "and I will be free."
Astarion snorted, crossing his arms. "That's all it takes? A friendly pat on the back? Seems a little underwhelming for a centuries-old magical imprisonment."
Nightsong's irritated glare cut through the vampire's sarcasm like a blade. "That and nothing more. So certain was Balthazar that I had no friends in this place. Oh, how he taunted and cajoled." Her gaze drifted to Shadowheart, her voice softening. "But if you are a friend - you can be my salvation."
Ishta turned her head, her eyes finding Shadowheart's. The younger woman stood frozen, the weight of the moment pressing visibly on her shoulders. Her hands trembled, her breathing uneven.
"I think this honor is yours," Ishta said gently, her tone laced with quiet encouragement. She stepped aside, leaving the path to Nightsong open.
Shadowheart swallowed hard and for a moment, it seemed as though she wouldn't move - but then, slowly, she stepped forward, her movements hesitant, as if the very air around her might turn hostile.
Nightsong knelt, lowering herself deliberately, her glowing gaze fixed on Shadowheart. The golden cracks across her skin pulsed faintly as the runes beneath her glowed brighter.
Shadowheart hesitated a breath away, her hand hovering just above Nightsong's shoulder. Her lips parted as if she might speak, but no words came. Then, with a quiet exhale, she closed the distance, her hand resting lightly against Nightsong's broad, scarred shoulder.
The effect was immediate. The mage hands appeared in a sudden flare of light, gripping at Nightsong's limbs as though in a desperate attempt to maintain control. But as Shadowheart's touch lingered, the spectral bindings began to glow, their pale blue light intensifying before bursting into a cascade of shimmering fragments that dissolved into the air. The Nightsong gasped, stumbling forward, her body wracked with a sudden tremor.
She fell to her hands and knees, her breath rasping as though the weight of a century had just been lifted. Her head hung low, strands of pale hair falling over her face. Then, slowly, she raised her fist and slammed it into the platform beneath her, the sound reverberating like the toll of a bell. She repeated the motion, each strike echoing louder, a deliberate rhythm that seemed to vibrate through the Shadowfell itself.
A hum began, low and ancient, spilling from her lips like a forgotten song of ages past. "Our Lady of Silver. Hear me! She Who Guides, the Moonmaiden Selûne." The chant grew, its haunting melody filling the air. The echoes multiplied, shifting into a harmonious chorus that resonated far beyond the platform. The melody seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, swelling like the tide.
As the music reached its peak, the Nightsong raised her head, her voice ringing out in a powerful invocation. "MOTHER OF THE SO-CALLED NIGHTSONG. THE NIGHTSONG IS NO MORE!"
A brilliant moonbeam descended from the dark sky above, its silver light illuminating her like a divine spotlight. The glow enveloped her, and the transformation began. Her tattered, bloodied garments dissolved, replaced piece by piece with shining armor that gleamed with the radiance of a holy paladin. The symbol of Selûne shimmered on her breastplate, catching the moonbeam's light as if reflecting the goddess herself.
A gasp tore through the group as a pair of white wings unfurled from her back, spreading wide with an audible snap. When the light faded, Nightsong stood transformed. Her posture exuded raw power, her every movement fluid and commanding. The polished armor glinted as though it held the moonlight itself, and her radiant wings stretched wide behind her, each feather shimmering with celestial beauty. She was a vision of divine might and grace, her presence so magnetic it pulled every gaze to her.
For a long moment, the group stared, the weight of her transformation leaving them speechless. Then Karlach let out a low whistle, her voice husky with awe. "Damn. I think I just found religion."
Astarion's sharp gaze traced the Nightsong's every movement, lingering on the way her wings flexed and her radiant form glinted in the dim light of the Shadowfell. "Same… I'm about ready to compose sonnets. Do you think Selûne accepts thirsty vampires into her congregation? Reformed ones of course..."
Ishta snorted, unable to stop the laugh that bubbled up, though she pressed her hand to her face in a futile attempt to hide her amusement. Her shoulders shook as she coughed out, "You two are unbelievable."
Nightsong's sharp gaze swept over them like a blade, her luminous wings shifting slightly, feathers catching the faint glow of the runes. Her posture radiated authority, yet the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed something more. Amusement? Annoyance? Both? She lifted her chin slightly, her voice ringing across the platform with unshakable confidence. "I am resplendent."
Karlach leaned toward Astarion, not even attempting to keep her voice down. "Resplendent doesn't even cover it."
Astarion placed a hand over his chest in mock reverence, letting out a theatrical sigh. "Truly, the divine works in mysterious - and distractingly attractive - ways."
Karlach smirked, nudging him with her elbow. "Do you think she's single?"
"Karlach, please. We're in the middle of the Shadowfell, and your priorities are flirting?"
"Look at her and tell me you're not thinking the same thing." Karlach gave him a sidelong glance, gesturing subtly toward the glowing, winged figure before them.
Astarion tilted his head, his grin sharpening. "Fair enough. Should we… flip a coin?"
"I'd wrestle you for it."
"Tempting, but I'd rather not get my hair dirty."
Ishta pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly as another laugh threatened to escape. "I swear, if you two keep this up, I'm throwing you both off this platform."
A voice cut in, smooth and laced with disdain. Minthara, standing slightly apart from the group, eyed them with mix of disdain and irritation. "I will be happy to assist you in that… it is truly astonishing that you all were able to defeat my forces."
Before anyone could retort, Nightsong's voice rang out again, the faint amusement gone now, replaced with cool irritation. "Are you all quite finished?" Her wings flexed again, the motion deliberate, catching the light in a dazzling display that drew all eyes back to her. The force of her presence was magnetic, impossible to ignore.
Ishta stepped forward, gesturing apologetically toward Nightsong, though her lips twitched with barely concealed humor. "I apologize on behalf of my companions. Your radiance may have fried what little brains they had to begin with."
Karlach let out a snort, but Nightsong ignored her. Instead, her piercing gaze fell on Shadowheart, who stood rigidly clenching her fists. The Nightsong's expression softened, but her tone lost none of its weight as she addressed her. "You have given me a great gift, little warrior. Don't you find it oh-so-curious that you would spurn your Dark Lady?"
Shadowheart tensed, her fingers twitching at her sides. Nightsong stepped closer, her voice dropping into something intimate, almost conspiratorial. "Perhaps you feel a stirring of truth, even now. But that will come later." She turned, her wings spreading wide as her voice rose. "There is a battle yet to be fought."
With a powerful leap, Nightsong took to the air, the force of her wings stirring the air around them. Her form became a burst of light that streaked upward, cutting through the Shadowfell's gloom as if the moon itself had descended to shatter the dark.
The group stared after her, the platform quiet except for the faint hum of the runes beneath their feet. Shadowheart broke the silence, her voice tight, her eyes shadowed with worry. "We need to leave. Lady Shar won't stand for us to be here - not after what we did."
Astarion's tone was light, but the edge in his grin hinted at unease. "If Shar is angry, she's being remarkably quiet about it."
Shadowheart shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "That's what frightens me. She must be angry, yet I don't feel it. I don't hear it. There's only silence." She turned to Ishta, her voice trembling slightly. "Let's get out of here, please. Whatever's coming, I don't want to be in the heart of the Shadowfell when it finds me."
Ishta nodded, gripping the hilt of her weapon tightly as her gaze lingered on the direction Nightsong had disappeared. "The Nightsong will be headed for Moonrise Towers. We'd better get there and see what she's unleashed against Ketheric Thorm."
Karlach cracked her knuckles, a determined grin breaking through her unease. "Whatever it is, I hope he's ready for it. Because I sure as hell am."
Astarion smirked, adjusting his cloak. "Shall we, then? This place is… charming, but I think we've overstayed our welcome."
Without another word, the group began to move, the faint tension of the Shadowfell pressing heavier with each step.
Astarion stood frozen, his boots planted in the soft, uneven dirt outside the mausoleum. The damp, fetid night air felt like ice against his skin, but it barely registered. His mind churned, emotions clawing at him from every angle - shock, dread, fury. Each one screamed for attention, tangling into a chaotic mess that left him mute, his lips slightly parted as if words might form, though none came.
Five minutes. That was all it had been since they'd left the oppressive gloom of the Shadowfell behind. The portal had spat them out with all the grace of a butcher's cleaver, leaving them disoriented and ragged. Moments later, Shadowheart had appeared, only to collapse like a puppet with its strings cut, gasping and trembling as though she'd been ripped apart and stitched back together in the blink of an eye.
Astarion had barely processed her fall, barely registered Ishta dropping to her knees beside Shadowheart, murmuring soft reassurances as the Cleric clutched at her hand with white-knuckled desperation. And then he had arrived.
The scent of brimstone had been his herald, the faintest ripple of heat brushing against Astarion's cheek before the Raphael's voice had broken through the stillness like a poisoned blade. He had congratulated them on killing Yurgir and spouted meaningless trivia about devils, before delivering the real kick in the gut that had left Astarion reeling.
Astarion's mind replayed Raphael's words in cruel, vivid detail, each syllable digging deeper into his chest like a knife. The devil had laid it out plainly: the scars on his back weren't just a mark of ownership - they were a key, one part of an infernal contract between Cazador and Mephistopheles in order to perform the Rite of Profane Ascension.
The ritual promised Cazador everything - amplified strength, the pleasures of mortal life, immunity to sunlight, and power beyond imagining. He wouldn't just be a vampire lord; he would become the Vampire Ascendant, a creature unbound by the usual limitations of the undead.
And the price? The sacrifice of all his spawn - every last one of them, drained dry to fuel his ascension. The scars on Astarion's back were not just brands; they were the last key to unlocking the ritual. His soul would be the trigger, the final act of slaughter that would let Cazador break free of his undead chains and bask in his perverse new life.
Raphael had smiled as he delivered the final blow. Imagine how your master felt when you disappeared.
Astarion could imagine it all too well - the cold fury, the tightening grip of control, the way Cazador's talons had surely sunk deeper into the ones left behind. And Astarion? He wasn't just the errant spawn who had dared to escape anymore. He was the missing piece, the final key in Cazador's ascension.
The weight of it pressed against him like a vice, and for once, his usual flippancy failed to surface. Raphael's smug proclamation of doom still hung in the air, the devil's lingering smirk burned into Astarion's memory. The space where Raphael had vanished shimmered faintly, a reminder of his absence and his threat.
"You're… quiet. It's unsettling," Ishta's voice broke the silence, her tone gentle but laced with curiosity.
Astarion blinked, the words pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. He glanced at her briefly before looking away, feigning indifference. "It's a lot to take in," he said, his voice measured, almost distant.
Karlach shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flicking between the two of them. "Did you already know about this, Ishta?" she asked, her voice careful, tinged with concern.
Ishta hesitated for a heartbeat, glancing at Astarion before nodding. "Yes - not about the specifics, though," she admitted. "We figured out his scars were part of some kind of contract."
Lae'zel's sharp voice cut in, her tone as unrelenting as ever. "Why keep this from us? Knowing how valuable Astarion is to Cazador, our mission could have been compromised by his master's interference."
Astarion felt the irritation rising in his chest, simmering like coals beneath his skin. He turned to her, his jaw tightening, but before he could respond, Ishta stepped in.
"It was a private matter," she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument.
Lae'zel's frown deepened, her expression hard and unyielding. "In future, it would be best if we all refrain from keeping secrets like this from one another. It creates unnecessary risk."
The coals in Astarion's chest flared to life, his irritation finally boiling over. He plastered on a saccharine smile, tilting his head just so. "Well, if you must know…" he began, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, "I'm also a princess of House Nightstar. And I'm married to a Tarrasque named Jonathan. Anything else you'd like to know?"
There was a beat of silence as everyone stared at him, their expressions ranging from baffled to disbelieving. Then, cutting through the quiet, Ishta remarked with deadpan precision, "I'd have paid money to see that wedding."
Astarion tried to hold onto his irritation, but his lips betrayed him, twitching upward despite his best efforts. He let out a huff, rolling his eyes. "Hilarious," he muttered, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Karlach tilted her head, a grin spreading across her face. "Wait - did you propose, or did he?" she teased, her voice light and mischievous.
Ishta snorted, unable to contain her laughter, and Astarion's scowl deepened as he shot her a pointed look. "Oh, wonderful. Now you're both in on it."
He sighed dramatically, waving a hand toward the path ahead. "Are we getting out of here or not?" he snapped, though the sharpness in his tone was undercut by the faint humor lingering in his eyes.
Ishta nodded, still grinning as she gestured forward with an exaggerated flourish. "Of course, right this way… your highness."
Astarion narrowed his eyes, his gaze locking onto hers. "You're going to keep this up the whole way back, aren't you?"
Ishta's grin widened as she turned on her heel and started walking. "Yup."
Karlach clapped him on the back, her laughter echoing as she followed. "You know, Astarion, I think you'd make a lovely princess."
Astarion sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose but unable to suppress the faint smile tugging at his lips. "I'm surrounded by idiots," he muttered under his breath, though there was no malice in the words - just the faint warmth of a man momentarily distracted from the weight on his shoulders.
The weight didn't lift when they reached Last Light. Even as Jaheira and Ishta poured over battle plans for the assault on Moonrise, the air buzzing with talk of Ketheric's vulnerability, Astarion couldn't shake the gnawing unease coiled tight in his chest.
That dread clung to him still as he fought in the chaos of Moonrise's throne room. His body moved on instinct, his hands steady as he loaded and fired his crossbows with precision. Every bolt struck true, sinking into armor joints or exposed flesh, yet the satisfaction he usually felt - the sharp thrill of combat - was absent. The gnawing thoughts remained, burrowing deeper with every passing moment.
Steel clashed around him, spells ignited the air with crackling heat, and the copper tang of blood was thick in his lungs. The Harpers and his companions cut through the Absolutists like a scythe, pushing through the ranks in a relentless tide.
He didn't realize how distracted he was until movement flashed in front of him.
Ishta lunged, scimitars flashing as she intercepted an arrow meant for his skull. The severed shaft clattered to the ground at his feet.
"Astarion!" she snapped, her voice sharp, cutting through the din of battle. "Get your head in the game!"
He blinked, his focus snapping back to the present. He glanced at the broken arrow, then up at her, still gripping her blades. Her golden eyes burned with frustration, but beneath that, concern flickered.
"Apologies…" he murmured, his voice lacking its usual flippancy. "I just… I have a lot on my mind."
Ishta's gaze flicked across the battlefield. The worst of the fighting had pushed forward, Harpers surging toward the upper floors, leaving only scattered bodies in the throne room. The lull in combat wouldn't last long, but Ishta seized the opportunity.
Without a word, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him aside, down a shadowed alcove between ruined pillars.
The moment they were clear, she whirled on him, scimitars still in hand. "Talk to me," she ordered, her tone softer but no less urgent. "What's wrong? If this is about Cazador and the ritual—"
Astarion exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "I just…" He hesitated, rubbing his face before leaning back against the cold stone wall. His voice came quieter, strained. "I was beginning to think I was safe. That maybe he'd given up looking for me."
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion. "But now I know what I've run off with… and it changes everything. He'll never give up. He'll hunt me to the ends of Faerûn."
Ishta's expression hardened, her grip tightening around her swords before she sheathed them with a decisive motion. She stepped forward, her voice steady. "I gave you my oath," she said, and Astarion could hear the conviction in every word. "I won't let him take you."
Astarion lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. The sheer determination blazing in her gaze made his throat tighten. For a moment, he simply stared at her, her words sinking in, her conviction a weight as steady as his own doubts.
"I know…" he admitted, exhaling through his nose. His voice softened, barely above a whisper. "But I don't want to hide behind you for the rest of my life."
The words felt heavier than he expected. His whole existence had been spent surviving, enduring. And yet, the idea of only surviving, of constantly looking over his shoulder, relying on others to keep him free - it made something in him ache.
Ishta nodded, as if she understood. Then, her voice dropped even lower. "Then we end this. Not someday. Not when he finds you. We do it on our terms."
His gaze flicked to hers, searching for any doubt, any hesitation. He found none, though the word our sent a ripple of longing through him.
A sharp breath left him, and he gave a small, exhausted chuckle. "You make it sound so easy."
She quirked a faint smirk. "It won't be. But I'll be beside you, every step of the way."
Something lodged itself in his throat, something increasingly familiar and uncomfortable. He swallowed it down and straightened, rolling his shoulders. His usual smirk returned, though it lacked some of its usual sharpness. "Well then," he mused, shifting back into something closer to himself. "Shall we get back to the battle before they assume we've abandoned them?"
Ishta raised a brow. "They'll manage without us for five minutes." She tilted her head slightly. "You good?"
Astarion inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and gave a theatrical flourish of his hand. "Always."
Ishta didn't look convinced, but she nodded before turning on her heel, moving back toward the battlefield.
For a brief moment, Astarion lingered, watching her go. He pushed off the wall, inhaled deeply, and then followed, crossbows at the ready. There was still work to be done...