Corpses littered the halls of Moonrise Towers, a grotesque tapestry of ruin. Some bodies lay burned beyond recognition, charred limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Others had been hacked apart, their remains strewn across the stone floor in wet, glistening heaps. The scent of blood, acrid smoke, and something worse - something sickly and unnatural - hung thick in the stagnant air.

Jaheira halted, surveying the carnage with a grim expression. Her fingers flexed around the hilt of her sword. "By the gods... what happened here?"

Gale stepped over a severed arm, his face set like stone. He nudged a singed torso with the toe of his boot, sighing. "I'd recognize Durge's handiwork anywhere."

Astarion crouched beside a particularly mangled corpse, his pale fingers brushing the blood-slick floor as he examined the wreckage. With a derisive sniff, he prodded what had once been a man's face with the tip of his dagger. "Yes... no style at all."

Rolan scoffed, arms crossed. "Only you would expect a murderer to have an aesthetic."

Astarion straightened, sheathing his dagger with an elegant flourish. "I pride myself on at least keeping things neat and tidy when I murder someone." He smirked. "A little effort goes a long way."

Jaheira cast him a sharp look over her shoulder. "I'm going to pretend I'm not hearing this conversation, Astarion."

His grin widened, fangs flashing. "Offending your heroic sensibilities, am I?"

Jaheira didn't dignify him with a response. Instead, she raised a hand, pointing toward a trail of fresh, bloody footprints leading up the grand staircase behind the throne dais.

The group pressed forward, their boots squelching against the bloodied stone. Astarion glanced back as Karlach and Onyx crouched over the body of a fallen bugbear. He saw Karlach rummage through the corpse's belongings before slipping something into her palm. Onyx stiffened, his dark fur bristling as his nose twitched.

Astarion arched a brow as they caught up. "Find something of interest?" he asked, his voice light, but his gaze sharp.

Karlach held up a small black iron disk, the surface etched with infernal script. "Soul coins. I can use them to give this engine of mine a boost." She tapped her chest, where the infernal machinery churned beneath her ribs.

Onyx's ears flicked back. "I do not like the idea of using souls as fuel."

Astarion grinned, tilting his head. "Worried she might pop you in her chest for an extra special boost?"

Karlach barked a laugh, shoving the soul coin into her pouch. Onyx huffed, ears twitching in irritation.

They ascended the stairs, footsteps muffled by dust and the distant sounds of battle. The upper floors bore more remnants of slaughter - bodies crumpled in doorways, bones stacked in haphazard heaps. The sound of clashing steel echoed from the roof above, faint but urgent.

Jaheira led them toward the stairwell. The moment her boot touched the first step, the entire building shuddered. A deep, guttural roar reverberated through the stone, rattling dust loose from the rafters.

Gale's head snapped up, eyes wide. "What was that?"

Astarion rolled his eyes, adjusting the laces on his vambrace. "I can't see through ceilings, so I'm as much in the dark as you are... well, almost."

Jaheira pushed ahead, her voice firm. "Then let's go find out. Harpers, with me!"

Astarion made no move to hurry. "I'm behind you all the way... far, far behind," he drawled.

Rolan shoved past him, eyes blazing. "Then I get the first shot at Durge."

Astarion and Gale exchanged alarmed glances before, as one, they both barked, "Wait up, Rolan!"

They burst onto the rooftop, the night sky opening above them in a churning storm of shadow. A throne sat upon the ramparts, crude and jagged, faced by an altar stained dark with old blood. Bones littered the ground in chaotic piles. More bodies lay sprawled, their deaths fresh.

Jaheira knelt beside a fallen cultist, pressing two fingers against the corpse's throat. "Still warm... they were just here."

Astarion stepped lightly over the bones, his eyes scanning the scene. No sign of Ketheric. No sign of Durge. But across the rooftop, one of the outer towers had collapsed, its upper section torn apart as if something enormous had smashed through it. A red, pulsing glow bled through the cracks in the stone, illuminating the ruin with an eerie, otherworldly light.

Onyx sniffed the air, his nose twitching as he followed the scent of blood. He stalked toward the ruined tower, stopping at its edge. He peered down, tail flicking once before he turned back to them. "I think they went down here."

Astarion and the others hurried to his side, gazing down into the depths. The tower's interior had been transformed into something grotesque - thick, fleshy tendrils pulsed against the stone, slick with red slime. Faint, wet sounds echoed from below, something shifting, moving in the dark.

Karlach groaned. "Please tell me we're not jumping into the creepy, glowing hole..."

Jaheira eyed the organic lattice of tendrils draped along the walls. "You can jump if you want, but I'd suggest climbing down."

Astarion wrinkled his nose, poking one of the tendrils with the tip of his dagger. It quivered under the touch, releasing a slick, wet sound. He shuddered. "Ladies first..."

Rolan smirked, crossing his arms. "Good of you to volunteer, Astarion."

Onyx let out a low chuckle as Astarion shot the tiefling venomous glare, before turning to Gale and Rolan. "Do either of you know Featherfall?"

Rolan reached into his satchel, fingers brushing past spell components before pulling out a tightly wound scroll. He held it up with a triumphant flick of his wrist. "Got it on this."

They gathered close as Rolan unfurled the scroll, his eyes narrowing in concentration. Arcane syllables slipped from his lips, the words humming with latent power. A faint shimmer passed over them, a tingling sensation along Astarion's skin, light as mist. The weight of gravity seemed to lessen, their bodies growing oddly buoyant.

They stepped onto the edge of the broken tower, peering down into the yawning darkness below. The air was thick with decay, damp and foul, carrying a scent that coiled in the back of the throat like old meat left to rot. A moment of hesitation. Even with the spell, stepping into the abyss was not a natural instinct.

Then Astarion shoved Rolan.

The tiefling let out a startled yelp, arms flailing wildly as he tipped forward, his boots scrabbling against the crumbling stone. He vanished over the edge, his startled cry fading as he drifted downward.

Astarion smirked, adjusting the collar of his shirt before stepping gracefully into the void. The magic caught him instantly, slowing his descent until he was gliding down with an almost lazy grace. The others followed, drifting downward like autumn leaves caught in an unseen current.

Halfway down, Rolan regained control, crossing his arms as he leveled a glare at Astarion. His molten eyes burned with irritation, though the slow rotation of his body in freefall made the effect slightly less intimidating.

Astarion tilted his head, baring his fangs in a self-satisfied grin.

"You are an absolute menace," Rolan grumbled.

"Thank you," Astarion purred, stretching his arms as though lounging midair.

They drifted downward, the walls tightening around them as the tendrils became denser, pulsing as though the entire structure was alive. Wet, slithering sounds echoed faintly, distant but unmistakably organic. Astarion's stomach coiled as a familiar unease crawled up his spine.

The bottom of the tower gave way to a cavernous chamber, slick and red, the walls lined with thick, undulating growths. The scent of brine and something worse hung in the stagnant air. The ground squelched underfoot as they landed, their boots sinking slightly into the fleshy, veined surface.

Astarion stilled. The sight, the scent - too familiar. A cold memory clawed its way up from the depths of his mind, unbidden and unwanted. The Nautiloid. The endless corridors of wet, living flesh, the scent of mucus and rot, the sensation of the parasite burrowing it's way past his eyeball-

He exhaled sharply, forcing the memory back into its grave.

Onyx prowled forward, his silver fur catching the dim, wet sheen of the room. His nose wrinkled, lips pulling back slightly as he took in the grotesque surroundings.

"If I had to guess..." Gale said, poking a cautious finger against one of the walls. "I'd say this is an Illithid colony."

Jaheira clicked her tongue, one hand resting on the pommel of her scimitar as she surveyed the unnatural expanse with barely concealed distaste. "Of all the beastly lairs I've had to poke my nose into - those are still by far the worst."

Onyx growled low in agreement, claws clicking against the unnatural surface beneath them. "True. I've seen worse... but not by much."

Gale tilted his head, intrigued despite the grim setting. "You've been inside one before?"

Onyx didn't answer immediately. Instead, he padded toward an archway made of slick, dark chitin. He lowered his head, pressing his nose against a raised lump at its center. A moment later, the organic mass quivered, then peeled open with a wet, sucking sound, revealing a tunnel beyond. The walls pulsed, lined with shifting, red-veined flesh. The air inside was warmer, thick with a humid, cloying dampness.

The direwolf let out a slow breath. "About a century ago, yes."

Gale's eyes lit with curiosity. "Fascinating. I'd love to hear more about your experiences, my friend."

Astarion rolled his shoulders, resisting the urge to claw at his own arms, as if the feeling of alien appendages restraining him might still linger. "I think we have more pressing concerns than a trip down memory lane," he muttered. His voice came out steadier than he felt.

Onyx nodded, stepping through the threshold without another word. One by one, they followed, vanishing into the pulsating darkness beyond.

Pain pulsed through Ashara's body as she stirred, a deep, aching throb in her muscles. She lay still for a moment, breathing through the discomfort, feeling the dull sting of bruises where Bâlorak had thrown her like a ragdoll. But her skin - her skin was whole. No lingering burns, no charred flesh. Her fingers skimmed over her arms, the ghost of dragonfire still lingering in her mind. She shivered, though the room was warm.

Memory surged up in her throat like bile - Astarion's head at her feet, his crimson eyes dull and unseeing. Bâlorak's cruel gaze, the sickening weight of helplessness. Ashara clenched her fists in the sheets, forcing herself to breathe. It hadn't been real. He had twisted her mind, played with her like a cat with a wounded bird. She exhaled sharply, shoving the thought aside.

The room came into focus. Wooden beams stretched overhead, the air thick with the scent of medicinal herbs, damp wool, and the lingering smoke from a distant hearth. Rows of beds lined the walls, most empty, save for one. A man lay curled beneath a threadbare blanket, dark skin slick with sweat. His lips moved in restless murmurs, the occasional half-sung note breaking the silence. Fever dreams clutched at him, pulling him in and out of some distant memory.

Ashara shifted, and fabric brushed against her skin. Someone had dressed her - some simple linen robe, loose at the sleeves, belted at the waist with a plain cord. She ran her fingers along the material, noting the slight stiffness of dried blood. Heat crept up her neck. Had Astarion-?

Before she could entertain the thought further, the door creaked open.

A tiefling woman entered, balancing a wooden bowl of water and a damp cloth. Her golden eyes met Ashara's, widening briefly before she smiled. "Oh, you're up."

Ashara barely had time to register the words before the woman stepped back into the hall and called out, "Mirkon! Vaarl! She's awake!"

A rapid patter of feet, a blur of movement - then something small and solid slammed into her.

Ashara staggered, her knees buckling as Mirkon threw himself against her with all the force his small frame could muster. His arms latched around her waist, face buried in her stomach.

"By the Hells - ow!" She winced, catching herself against the bedpost. "Mirkon, careful! You're squeezing too hard."

The boy only clung tighter, his fingers curling into the fabric of her robe. His breath came in uneven huffs, and she felt the damp warmth of his face pressed into her abdomen.

"Sorry..." he mumbled. "I was scared you'd never wake up."

The raw emotion in his voice unraveled something inside her. She exhaled, wrapping her arms around him and rubbing slow circles on his back.

"It's okay," she murmured. "I'm alright now. Just a bit sore."

A shadow moved in the doorway.

Vaarl stood there, arms stiff at his sides, his sharp Githyanki features pulled into something uncertain. He stepped forward, then stopped himself. His voice came small, uncertain. "C-can I hug you too?"

Ashara's lips curled into a smile, genuine despite the lingering aches. "Of course you can."

Vaarl hesitated only a moment longer before closing the space between them. The youth held himself stiff at first, unsure, but when she pulled him in, his grip firmed. She felt the tension ease from his shoulders as he exhaled against her. She laughed softly, shifting to fit them both against her, ignoring the lingering pain in her ribs.

"The others, where are they?"

Mirkon perked up instantly, pulling back to give her a satisfied smile. "They've gone off to kill the baddies!"

That gave her pause. She lifted her gaze to Vaarl, silently pressing for an answer.

The Githyanki cleared his throat, stepping back and gesturing toward the hall. "Onyx, Astarion, and the others left with Jaheira and most of her Harpers. They've gone to attack Moonrise Towers."

Ashara's heart lurched. She gripped Mirkon's shoulders a little too tightly. "What?" She pushed past them, moving toward the door. "When did they leave?"

Vaarl fell into step beside her, leading her out into the common room where the fire in the central hearth burned low, casting shifting shadows along the stone walls. A few tieflings and gnomes sat scattered about, murmuring in hushed tones over bowls of stew, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and smoke.

Vaarl gestured toward an empty bench, urging her to sit. "A few hours ago," he said. "They think the Kith'rak - I mean, the general - has been weakened. Something happened while you were fighting Bâlorak."

Ashara barely heard him. Her mind spun, her pulse hammering against her temples - they were fighting without her. Charging into the heart of Moonrise Towers while she had been lying here, unconscious, useless.

Mirkon scrambled onto the bench beside her, practically vibrating with excitement. "Did you really fight a dragon?"

Ashara exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus. She nodded, settling onto the wooden bench, her fingers curling around the edge. "Yes... but he left before the fight ended."

Mirkon grinned, chest puffing out. "He was probably scared of you."

A wry smile tugged at her lips. She rested a hand on his head, ruffling his curls. "I don't think it was me he was scared of..." She cast a glance toward the fire, her mind drifting. "But I'm glad he's gone. For now."

She turned back to Vaarl. "Did Onyx say when they'd be back?"

Vaarl's hands flexed at his sides, his shoulders drawing up as if bracing himself. "No... but he told me to order you to stay here and rest."

He tried for authority, but his shifting weight and averted gaze betrayed his nerves.

Ashara's brows lifted. "Did he now?"

Vaarl swallowed, nodding stiffly.

A muscle in her jaw ticked. She dragged a hand down her face, inhaling slow through her nose. Every fiber of her being screamed against waiting. Against inaction. But Onyx had given an order, and if he thought she wasn't ready...

Ashara exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples before forcing her hands to relax. The weight in her chest refused to ease, but she pushed it down. Her voice came lighter than she felt.

"So... did I miss anything interesting while I was gone?"

Mirkon, ever eager, perked up instantly. His small legs swung beneath the bench as he grinned. "Fire lady can hug people now!" he blurted, bouncing slightly as if this was the most exciting news in the world. "She gives nice, warm hugs."

Then, just as quickly, his expression dimmed. His fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, his voice dropping to a quieter murmur. "But she's also sad about it for some reason."

Vaarl, standing beside the table with arms crossed, cleared his throat. "One of the prisoners Rolan and that new wizard freed - his name's Dammon - he's something called an 'infernal blacksmith.' He... fixed up Karlach's engine."

Ashara tilted her head. "Fixed up?"

Vaarl nodded, shifting his weight. "It lets her cool down now. She can touch people without burning them."

Mirkon, momentarily distracted, reached out as a beetle scuttled across the table. He cupped his hands, watching it crawl onto his palm with wide-eyed fascination.

Vaarl glanced at Ashara again, hesitation flickering across his features. He kept his voice lower this time, meant only for her ears. "But he also told her..." He inhaled sharply, flicking another glance at Mirkon before finishing. "He told her that she has to go back to Avernus soon, or else the engine will overheat."

Ashara's stomach lurched. She forced herself to remain still, to school her expression into something unreadable. No point in worrying Mirkon, not when he was so blissfully unaware of what that truly meant.

"You mean... she's..."

Vaarl gave a quick nod. "She doesn't want to go back, though. She said she wants to live her life to the fullest here."

Ashara pressed her lips together, throat tight. She had seen Karlach's joy, her open-hearted laughter, her eagerness to embrace the world - only for this fate to be thrown at her. And Onyx... Ashara swallowed hard, forcing herself not to imagine what he must be feeling. She was aware he'd grown fond of the boisterous tiefling.

Mirkon piped up again, seemingly oblivious to the weight in the air. "Dammon gave her a cool new arm too!"

Ashara blinked, pulled from her spiraling thoughts. "Did he?" She glanced at the boy's excited expression, forcing a small smile. "That's... nice."

Her attention wavered as a group of gnomes nearby broke into a heated argument. One jabbed a finger at another's chest, voices rising in sharp, clipped words. She barely registered the details before a voice cut through the noise.

"Vaarl! It's time!"

Vaarl stiffened instantly, his entire body tensing as his head snapped toward the stairs. His eyes widened. "Tsk'va!" He hissed the word under his breath before turning on his heel and bolting up the steps without another word.

Ashara turned, baffled. "What-?"

Mirkon, unbothered, picked up the beetle and let it crawl over his hand. "He has to go and fix the moonlight bubble."

Ashara raised a brow. Before she could press further, another figure approached.

Allorn, the tiefling Harper who had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on Vaarl and Mirkon, strode up and eased himself onto the bench beside her with a faint chuckle. His crimson skin gleamed in the firelight, his curling horns casting long shadows against the wall. He stretched one arm lazily over the back of the seat, glancing toward the stairs where Vaarl had disappeared.

"The lad needs to learn how to count the hours better," he said, shaking his head with mild exasperation.

Ashara glanced toward the stairs where Vaarl had vanished. "What exactly is he doing up there?"

Allorn shifted, resting his elbow against the table as he poured himself a mug of ale from the nearby pitcher. "He has to complete a ritual every couple of hours to keep Selûne's blessing intact," he explained, rolling his shoulders. "Isobel only had to do it twice a day, but she was an experienced cleric. Vaarl's still learning - " he took a slow sip of ale, pausing before adding, " - and a bit scatterbrained."

Ashara's chest tightened. She lowered her gaze, fingers absently tracing the worn grooves in the wood beneath her palm. "I'm sorry we couldn't find Isobel."

Allorn sighed, his eyes lowering to his drink. "She always knew her father would come for her eventually."

Ashara stiffened. Her fingers curled slightly against the table's edge. "Her father?"

Allorn took another slow sip before setting his mug down with a quiet clink. "Ketheric Thorm."

Ashara felt the breath leave her lungs. She straightened slightly, blinking. "Oh... wow, that's..."

Allorn gave her a wry smile, tilting his head. "Complicated?" He lifted his mug in a half-hearted toast. "Most families usually are."

Ashara turned her gaze toward the fire, watching the flames flicker and snap against the blackened logs. The heat licked at her skin, but her thoughts drifted toward something far colder.

"She broke ties with him years ago," Allorn continued. His voice had softened, as if discussing something already long past. "Fled when the corruption in his soul became too great. She built this sanctuary as a beacon of hope, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he closed his fist around her and dragged her back to his side."

Ashara's jaw tightened. The weight of those words sat uncomfortably in her chest. A daughter fleeing from a father who had become something monstrous, knowing he would never stop looking for her.

She swallowed against the bitter taste of the thought and pushed herself to her feet.

"I need to go beyond the barrier for a little while," she said, rolling her shoulders, shaking off the lingering stiffness. "Can you make sure Vaarl doesn't worry too much?"

Allorn gave her a long, measured look, his tail flicking lazily against the bench. "Are you sure that's wise?"

Ashara met his gaze, steel threading through her voice. "I have my Frostfire." She flexed her fingers slightly, feeling the cool pulse of power beneath her skin. "I just need to find somewhere private to speak to my father."

Allorn's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright. Just try not to get yourself killed."

Ashara gave him a small, wry smile. "I'm not panning to."

The fire crackled behind her as she turned toward the exit, the cold night air seeping through the cracks in the wooden walls. The battle at Moonrise raged without her. And she hated waiting.

Grabbing a cloak and slipping out of the inn, she kept her movements quiet, instinctively avoiding eye contact with the gathered refugees and the Harpers stationed to guard them. The dim lantern light caught the wary glances of those still awake, eyes hollowed by exhaustion, faces etched with lines of uncertainty. The hum of whispered conversations and the occasional clatter of equipment filled the air, a constant murmur of survival and tension.

She tightened her cloak around her shoulders, an uneasy prickling crawling up her spine. Without Onyx by her side, the presence of so many people felt suffocating. He had always been the shield between her and the outside world, his mere presence an anchor in chaos. Without him, she was too exposed.

Keeping her head low, she crossed the ruined courtyard, boots crunching over loose gravel and shattered stone. The bridge stretched ahead, its once-proud arch now marred with cracks, leading toward the pulsing shimmer of the protective barrier. Beyond it, the cursed land waited, dark and lifeless.

The moment she stepped past the barrier, the chill of the Shadow Curse clawed at her skin. A wave of exhaustion crashed over her, the oppressive weight of the darkness gnawing at her energy, whispering of decay and oblivion. She barely hesitated before summoning a flame of Frostfire, the cold-blue fire crackling to life in her palm. It flickered and danced, casting eerie light against the twisted, skeletal trees around her, driving back the suffocating blackness.

The air grew thick with the scent of damp rot and stagnant water. The forest loomed in gnarled silence, its branches curling like skeletal fingers against the starless sky. She moved carefully, boots skimming over roots and crumbling stone, her flame casting shifting shadows against the ancient, warped trunks.

At last, she reached a cluster of jagged rocks, their surfaces slick with lingering condensation. Choosing the largest, she crouched and scratched arcane runes into the surface with a jagged stone, the markings glowing faintly in response to her touch.

She stepped back, lowering her head slightly as she whispered, "Fenrir, Lord of the Wild Hunt. Your... daughter desires to speak with thee."

The air around the stone shifted, crackling with latent energy. The runes pulsed, then flared to life, a bright blue light swirling within their grooves. Smoke poured from the stone's center, thick and curling, its unnatural motion almost sentient. But there was no face. No form.

Ashara's throat tightened. Disappointment flared, but she crushed it down, straightening her shoulders.

"I know you can hear me," she called out, her voice sharp against the dead air. "Stop hiding from me."

A low rumble echoed from the depths of the swirling mist.

"I'm not hiding," Fenrir's voice reverberated, carrying the weight of distant thunder. "I'm... observing from a safe distance."

Ashara scoffed, crossing her arms. "I don't bite."

Laughter rippled through the portal, a deep, rolling sound that carried more amusement than warmth. "Oh, you do," Fenrir mused, his tone thick with meaning. "Just not with your jaws."

The smoke twisted, coalescing into the shape of a massive wolf's skull, its empty sockets burning with eerie blue light. The bone gleamed unnaturally in the flickering glow of her Frostfire.

Ashara arched a brow but let her arms drop to her sides, exhaling slowly. "Thank you," she murmured, the words quieter, more sincere. "For helping me. Back when I was trapped."

Fenrir's spectral gaze bore into her. "It was the least I could do," he rumbled. "I had not expected Bâlorak to find you so soon... he must have already been near when your divine powers began to manifest. More than likely drawn to this place by the stirrings of the Dead Three."

Ashara frowned, tilting her head. "What are you talking about?"

Fenrir let out a long exhale, his blue-flamed eyes flickering. "Selûne came to visit me shortly after she spoke with you. She told me everything the gods know about this 'Absolute' business." His voice darkened. "It seems the Dead Three - Myrkul, Bhaal, and Bane - have hatched a sinister little plot to take over Faerûn with the help of an Illithid invasion."

Ashara's stomach knotted. "What?!" She took a half step forward, the Frostfire in her palm flaring slightly. "How? And why would Selûne tell you this? Isn't that-" she hesitated, then gestured vaguely, "-classed as interfering?"

A low chuckle rumbled from the massive skull. "Nothing in the rules says a god can't share information with another god. Or a demigod..."

She exhaled through her nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "You like pushing your luck, don't you?"

Fenrir's skeletal jaws stretched in a toothy grin, but he remained silent.

Ashara let out a slow breath and moved to sit on a nearby fallen log, the wood damp and cold beneath her. She stayed quiet for a long moment, watching the flickering tendrils of mist shift in the air.

Then, softer, her voice laced with something heavier, she asked, "How have I managed to defeat Bâlorak so many times in the past? And why is he even doing this? I thought Gold Dragons were supposed to be wise - more aligned with the forces of good than most other dragons."

Fenrir's glowing eyes burned through the mist. "He is something of a pariah, even among his own kind," the god intoned. "Hence the name Golden Heretic. He rejected Bahamut - the king of metallic dragons - and instead aligned himself with Tiamat. His arrogance is so vast that he believes dragons are the only beings worthy of ascending to godhood."

The mist curled tighter, wrapping around the wolf's spectral form. "He sought to use my power to eliminate all non-draconic pantheons."

Ashara inhaled slowly. "You were really that powerful?"

The weight of Fenrir's presence seemed to deepen. "I was the Spirit of the Wild and the Sword of Ao," he said, his voice quiet, but carrying the weight of ages. "His loyal hound, sent to hunt down the gods during the Time of Troubles and bring them before him. So yes. I was that powerful, once." He paused, his burning eyes narrowing slightly. "No more, though."

A spark of mischief glinted in Ashara's eyes as she leaned forward slightly. "Now you're locked away for being a bad dog..."

The mist around Fenrir twisted violently as a deep, guttural growl thundered through the air. The sound rumbled through the ground beneath her feet, making the trees tremble.

Ashara paled, her spine stiffening as she quickly averted her gaze. "Sorry," she muttered.

Fenrir let out a long, dramatic sigh, the growl dissipating into an almost exasperated grumble. "I knew it," he rumbled, eyes narrowing further. "I knew that damn vampire would be a bad influence on you!"

Ashara's spine stiffened, her breath hitching as Fenrir's words settled over her like a cold shroud. Astarion - a bad influence? The very thought sent a sharp spark of defiance through her chest, chasing away any lingering hesitation.

Her fists clenched at her sides as she pushed herself to her feet, the damp earth shifting slightly beneath her boots. The frostfire she had conjured flickered in response to her agitation, the pale blue light casting wild shadows against the twisted trees.

"He's not a bad influence!" The words left her lips before she could temper them, raw and heated. "Astarion gives me courage. He's suffered through two centuries of hell, yet he still finds humor in the darkest moments."

She faltered, a sudden tightness gripping her throat. The vulnerability creeping into her own voice made her uneasy, but she pushed forward. "I... I really like him." Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe, gripping it like an anchor. "I admire how strong he is - how he still fights, even after everything."

The swirling mist around Fenrir stilled for a moment. The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. Then, with a deep, unimpressed hmph, Fenrir's burning eyes narrowed.

"Well," he drawled, his voice thick with condescension, "when he's spent several millennia chained up in an actual hell... then we can swap notes."

The dismissiveness in his tone sent a fresh wave of anger surging through her veins. Her fingers twitched, itching to lash out - not in violence, but in sheer frustration.

"Why can't you just be happy that I have a friend?" she snapped, her voice breaking slightly at the end.

Fenrir's burning eyes flickered, his spectral glow dimming as the swirling mist around him slowed. His massive skull tilted ever so slightly, as if her words had struck something deeper than he wanted to admit.

A silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken. Then, at last, a deep sigh rumbled from his form, his voice losing its usual sharp edge.

"I can't do this, Ashara."

Her frustration flared anew. "Do what?" she demanded, stepping closer, her hands trembling slightly as she clenched them once more. "Be my father for one godsdamn minute?"

The light around Fenrir dimmed further, the mist curling inward like a wounded beast retreating into itself. His next words came as a muttered admission, almost too quiet to catch.

"Onyx is so much better at this than I am..."

Ashara inhaled sharply. The words stung in a way she hadn't expected.

She turned away from the swirling portal, pressing her palm over her mouth for a brief moment, willing herself to steady her breath. Her fingers curled into her sleeve, gripping the fabric as if it could ground her. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, controlled.

"In all my... rebirths," she asked, staring out into the cursed forest beyond, "have we ever formed any kind of bond?"

The hesitation in Fenrir's silence was answer enough.

"No," he admitted at last, the weight of the word settling between them. "I... thought it best if I stayed out of your life." A pause, then, softer, "I'm not exactly in a position to be there for you in the ways you need."

Ashara exhaled, long and slow, before turning back to face him. "That doesn't matter," she said, her voice laced with something raw. "I'm not asking you to hold my hand in the dark or tell me bedtime stories. I just... want to know you."

Fenrir's form wavered slightly, his skeletal visage shifting within the mist. For a moment, he looked almost lost.

"I hardly know myself anymore," he admitted, and this time, his voice was quieter, carrying the weight of something ancient, something broken. "My mind skirts the edge of madness every day I remain in this prison. Some days, the despair consumes me, and I'm left clawing at my chest, trying to rip my own heart out."

The imagery sent a shudder down her spine and Ashara's breath hitched. She had never heard him speak like this before - so exposed, so broken.

Her fists loosened as she stepped forward, her voice softening. "Then let me help you," she murmured. "Talk to me. Let me be there for you."

Fenrir's glowing eyes flickered, his skull turning slightly away.

"No," he said, and though the word was firm, it carried a heavy grief. "If I grow to love you even more than I already do, then my grief will become dangerously all-consuming when I inevitably lose you again."

Ashara inhaled sharply. It felt like being struck.

Her shoulders stiffened as she let the words sink in, the weight of them pressing against her ribs like iron. Her hands twitched at her sides. "So because you fear loss... you'll never fully open your heart?"

Fenrir let out a quiet, humorless laugh. His skeletal jaws parted in something that almost resembled a grin, but there was no joy in it.

"Behold, the great wolf god - scourge of Faerûn... spineless as an ooze."

Ashara let out a breathless, almost bitter chuckle, shaking her head. "I don't blame you," she murmured, gazing into the depths of the glowing portal. "Losing someone you... care about hurts like nothing I've ever known."

Fenrir's ethereal glow brightened just slightly. His massive skull tilted, his burning eyes narrowing slightly.

"Oh?"

Ashara's heart skipped a beat.

Shit.

She knew that look. That tone. If she so much as breathed Astarion's name, Fenrir would never let it go. He already disliked the vampire - the last thing she needed was for him to latch onto this.

Her pulse quickened. "One of my friends is a tiefling," she deflected smoothly, "forced to serve in Avernus. She fought in the Blood War as a soldier. She finally escaped the Hells a couple of weeks ago, but..." Ashara exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against her temple as she sat down again. "Because she has an infernal engine for a heart... it's going to kill her."

Fenrir's burning gaze remained steady. The mist stilled.

"An infernal engine?" His voice rumbled with intrigue. "Hmm... interesting." A pause. "Those aren't meant to be used outside of the Hells. I'm surprised she's lasted this long."

Ashara's jaw tightened. "Is there a way to fix her?"

Fenrir's gaze darkened, as if considering.

"There... might be."

Hope surged through her so suddenly that she almost felt dizzy. She shot upright, her breath quickening. "You mean it?"

Fenrir let out an exasperated huff. "Calm down. I said might." His glowing eyes narrowed. "I'd need to have a good look at it first."

Ashara nodded, determination solidifying in her gut. "As soon as my friends return from Moonrise, I'll bring her to you."

Fenrir watched her for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a slow, measured nod, his form began to dissipate. The mist thickened, curling inward, his skeletal grin lingering a moment longer before the runes dimmed.

Ashara exhaled, sensing she wouldn't be able to call him back again any time soon. The night was silent again, save for the distant rustling of cursed leaves in the wind.

One battle at a time.

"Whew! That was quite a battle."

Astarion glanced over at Karlach as she planted a boot on the twitching corpse of a mindflayer, gripping the haft of her greataxe with one hand as she wrenched it free with a wet, sickening crack.

"Loving this new arm though," she added, holding up the hammer-like contraption that served as a temporary replacement for her lost limb. Dammon had rigged it together on the fly, but Astarion had to wonder what kind of impressive contraption the smith was capable of creating, given more time. Hopefully, they would all live long enough to see.

The chamber they were in reeked of blood, viscera, and brine. The walls pulsed with unnatural life, wet and glistening, flesh fused with metal in grotesque mockery of a living thing. The remnants of battle were everywhere - slain illithids, ichor pooling at their feet, and the broken remnants of the pods that had once imprisoned their victims.

Astarion flicked his sword to the side, sending a spray of silver blood onto the floor with an elegant motion. He curled his lip in disgust.

"Mindflayers truly are revolting," he drawled, examining the streaks of shimmering gore on his gloves. "All this blood, and I still can't drink a single drop of it."

Karlach let out a bark of laughter and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, nearly sending him off balance. "Cheer up, fangs! I'm sure there'll be some cultists skulking about for you to snack on."

Astarion huffed, rolling his shoulders to shake off the force of her hit. "Oh, how thoughtful of you. A lovely little consolation meal."

His crimson eyes swept the ruined chamber. The remnants of their battle were everywhere - shattered glass, the twitching remnants of illithid bodies, and among them, survivors. Halsin and Zevlor stood amidst the wreckage, their expressions still heavy with the weight of their near transformation.

Zevlor approached, relief softening his worn features. His smile was genuine, warm despite the exhaustion lining his face. "It is good to see you again, my friends," he said, voice steady but filled with gratitude.

But then his gaze slid past them, landing on a figure behind them.

Gale.

The wizard had remained near the back, keeping his head slightly bowed, as if willing himself unseen. But Zevlor saw him. His entire posture stiffened, his tail lashing once behind him. The veins in his hands stood out as he curled them into fists.

He took a single step forward, jaw tight with barely restrained fury.

Astarion moved without thinking, slipping between them in an instant, one hand raised in a placating gesture, the other resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His voice was light, almost lazy, but there was steel beneath it. "Let's not do this again," he drawled. "Gale is on our side now. Durge was... controlling him, in a manner of speaking."

Zevlor's amber eyes burned with unspent rage. He looked between Astarion and Karlach, then past them to where Onyx stood, watching in silence.

"You... you trust this wizard?" Zevlor's voice was tight, the hurt still raw beneath his anger.

Onyx stepped forward, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the ruined floor. He met Zevlor's gaze evenly, unflinching. And then, with a single, deliberate nod, he answered. "I do."

Zevlor's shoulders rose and fell with a sharp exhale, his fists unclenching slightly, but the tension didn't leave him.

Gale stepped forward then, his hands open at his sides, his expression one of quiet remorse. "I know my actions are unforgivable," he said, his voice steady but solemn. "But please, allow me to offer my sincerest apologies and condolences. I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to help you enact vengeance on those responsible for the deaths of your people."

Zevlor's lips pressed into a thin line. Then Halsin moved, stepping up beside the tiefling, his presence a steadying force. His hazel eyes bore into Gale, unflinching.

"Do you include yourself in that promise?" Halsin's voice was low, the accusation barely veiled.

Gale flinched, but only for a second. He squared his shoulders, inhaling deeply before lifting his chin to meet the druid's gaze head-on.

"Yes," he said, the word carrying no hesitation. "Once the Absolute is dealt with - if I survive - I will hand myself over to your judgment. I will face whatever punishment you deem fit for my crimes."

Astarion's brows lifted, a flicker of surprise flashing through him. He had expected the usual self-flagellating nonsense from the wizard, but this... this was something else. There was no performative martyrdom in Gale's words, no grandstanding - just cold, unwavering conviction.

Even Halsin seemed taken aback. His eyes searched Gale's face, looking for weakness, for hesitation. He found none.

Then, without warning, he, Zevlor, and Gale all let out simultaneous gasps of pain, their hands flying to their temples.

Astarion barely had time to react before a sharp, sickening squirm tore through his skull. His tadpole twisted inside him, sending a pulse of foreign memories - Halsin's rage, Zevlor's grief, Gale's guilt - crashing into his mind like a flood.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the connection snapped, leaving only the phantom ache in its wake.

Astarion's vision cleared in time to see Halsin's expression shift. The hostility in the druid's eyes softened as whatever he had seen in Gale's memories unraveled the wall between them. His fingers twitched at his sides, then, slowly, he reached out, clasping a firm hand on Gale's shoulder.

Gale's breath hitched, his entire body tensing at the unexpected touch.

"I understand," Halsin murmured, his voice carrying a weight that spoke of hard-earned wisdom. "I am not certain I would have chosen differently if I were in your place."

Gale's throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as though trying to process the sudden shift. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he only gave a single, small nod.

Astarion let the silence hang for just long enough before stepping forward and clapping his hands together.

"Well," he drawled, "now that we've all caught up and finished our mandatory guilt-tripping of the wizard - how about we go find the bastard responsible for all of our collected misery?"

For a beat, no one spoke.

Then-

Rolan rolled his shoulders with a sigh. "Sounds good to me."

Zevlor exhaled slowly, then bent down, picking up a discarded sword from one of the broken pods. He turned it over in his hands, testing the weight, before nodding.

"Lead on."

Astarion faltered for a moment, his usual glib confidence slipping as every eye in the chamber turned expectantly toward him. His fingers twitched, but he caught himself before he made an irritated gesture.

"Don't look at me - Jaheira's the one leading this charge." He gestured toward the Harpers, who had already begun moving through the chamber, their weapons drawn as they advanced toward another grotesque, pulsing flesh-door. The twisted walls of the colony shuddered faintly, as if aware of their intrusion.

Before they could move further, Onyx stepped up to Halsin and Zevlor, his dark fur bristling, ears twitching as if listening to something beyond their range. His golden eyes flickered, and he took a slow breath before closing them.

"There," Onyx murmured, the faintest ripple of power emanating from him. "You are both shielded now. The Absolute's voice is strong here - almost a roar."

Halsin let out a slow breath, his massive frame visibly relaxing as the tension in his shoulders eased. "I can still feel the pressure," he admitted, "but it's distant now. Manageable."

Zevlor, however, still looked unsettled, his tail flicking once before stilling. He flexed his fingers as if testing his own will against the foreign presence in his mind. After a moment, he nodded, exhaling sharply. "Much better. Thank you."

Karlach adjusted her grip on her greataxe, her tail flicking behind her. "Well, let's not keep her waiting."

The group pressed deeper into the illithid colony, winding through chambers thick with decay and the remnants of unspeakable horrors. Endless corpses littered the floor - some little more than husks, their skin dried and shriveled from whatever nightmarish experiments had been performed upon them. Others lay half-transformed, their bodies twisted into unnatural, half-formed mindflayers, as if they had been frozen mid-ceremorphosis.

They pushed forward until they reached an immense chitin door, its surface pulsing faintly as if breathing. As they neared, Onyx tensed, his ears flattening, teeth baring in a low growl.

"Whatever is controlling these tadpoles," he rumbled, "is beyond this door."

Karlach lifted her axe, resting it over one shoulder. "Then let's not waste any time."

A weighted pause. Then, without hesitation, Jaheira pressed forward, shoving against the fleshy surface. The door shuddered - then peeled apart, revealing the chamber beyond.

The sight that awaited them stole the breath from Astarion's lungs.

A vast, open expanse stretched before them, the ceiling high and lined with strange, glowing veins. Suspended in the air like dark omens were Nautiloid ships - dozens of them. They hovered in eerie stillness, their grotesque tendrils curling in the air like waiting predators.

"By the gods..." Gale breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "There's an entire fleet here."

Astarion narrowed his eyes, taking in the full scale of what lay before them. "This isn't just a cult..." His fingers curled instinctively around the hilt of his rapier. "This is a full-scale Illithid invasion."

Jaheira strode to the edge of the platform they stood upon, looking down at the lower levels. Her expression darkened. "And that..." she muttered, "is not good."

The others joined her, gazes locking onto the center of the chamber.

There - hovering above a massive, ringed platform - was a brain. Enormous, grotesque, its surface pulsing with malevolent energy. Atop it rested a strange metal crown, its structure radiating raw power, arcane runes flickering along its surface.

Three figures stood upon the platform, surrounding the elder brain, each holding a crystalline artifact that pulsed with unnatural energy, their gazes locked onto the behemoth before them.

Gale's breath hitched, his fingers twitching at his sides. "Look at that! Incredible..."

Karlach, less enraptured, let out a low whistle. "Yeah, that's one big brain."

Gale barely heard her. His eyes gleamed as he fixated on the crown atop the brain. His hands flexed slightly, his lips parting as he took a half-step forward. "Not just the brain," he murmured, voice thick with barely restrained longing. "Look at what's on it. That crown. It radiates power unlike anything I've ever seen. To have it... to hold... oh, if only I could-"

Astarion turned sharply, his gaze locking onto Gale. The wizard's expression was almost feverish, his voice thick with want.

"Gale," Astarion said sharply.

Gale barely reacted, his focus still locked onto the crown.

Onyx's fur bristled. "That's an elder brain," he growled. "That crown must be powerful indeed to enslave such a malevolent creature. It's definitely the source of your tadpoles... and the voice that commands them."

Gale's breath hitched. He turned to Onyx, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. Then, in a quieter voice, he murmured, "Then I must do as Mystra commands... end this thing before it threatens all of Faerûn."

Onyx's ears flattened, and a deep, warning growl rumbled from his chest. "Don't even think about it..."

Astarion dragged a hand down his face with an exasperated groan. "What is it with wizards and their unwavering need to die dramatically?"

Before Gale could respond, Rolan cleared his throat loudly, his voice thick with dry amusement. "Perhaps you could hold off blowing all of us up," he said, "until I've had a chance to personally blast that dragonborn bastard down there into oblivion?"

All eyes snapped to where he was pointing.

Down below, just out of sight of the three figures controlling the brain, a separate group moved through the shadows. Four of them.

Astarion's blood ran cold as his gaze locked onto a figure that stood just apart from the others. White scales gleamed under the eerie glow of the chamber, the familiar glint of armor catching the light.

Durge.

Astarion stood rigid, his eyes flicking to the figures on the platform as two of them broke away from the others and approached the hovering elder brain. A ripple of dark energy pulsed from the massive organ, swallowing them whole in a flash of black void. When the energy dissipated, they were simply gone - vanished into whatever hellish machinations had been set into motion.

All that remained on the platform was Ketheric Thorm.

Astarion's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening as he tracked the movements below. Durge and his companions advanced on Ketheric, their postures tense, the air around them crackling with hostility. The exchange that followed was heated, sharp gestures punctuating clipped words. Even from this distance, Astarion could see the fury in Durge's stance, the way their tail flicked in barely restrained aggression.

Then Ketheric moved.

A wave of necrotic energy burst from him, slamming into Durge's group with the force of a thunderclap. The force sent two of them staggering, the air thickening with the sickly scent of rot and decay. In an instant, the entire platform erupted into chaos.

The first of Ketheric's undead lurched into existence, clawing their way out of the fleshy floor, their bodies twisted and grotesque. They shambled forward, their hollowed eyes glowing with cold malevolence.

Then the mindflayers came. Three of them slithered out from the shadows, their tentacles twitching, psionic energy rippling around them like heat off a fire.

Astarion felt his gut twist in sick anticipation as the tension among his own group thickened.

Jaheira exhaled sharply, stepping forward. "Let them fight each other," she ordered, her tone brokering no argument. "Once they've whittled down each other's energy, then we strike."

Astarion barely registered her words before he felt it - the weight of eyes on him.

He turned his head, and sure enough, Halsin, Rolan, Karlach, Zevlor, and Gale were all staring at him. There was no need for words - their intent was clear.

They weren't waiting.

Astarion met their silent demand with a smirk, but there was no humor in it. Only cold, sharp resolve. He turned fully to Jaheira, his tone smooth but laced with steel.

"Sorry, but no," he said. "We all have a score to settle with that dragonborn, and I'm not about to let Ketheric steal that from us."

Jaheira's brows drew together, her lips pressing into a thin line. "This isn't up for debate," she snapped. "Stay back until Ketheric is weakened."

Astarion didn't acknowledge her.

Instead, he pivoted on his heel, striding toward a nearby structure - a fleshy contraption, pulsing faintly as if it were alive. He recognised it from his time aboard the Nautiloid - an elevator platform. He turned back, raising a brow at his companions as if daring them to follow. One by one, they moved to join him, stepping onto the platform without hesitation.

Jaheira's teeth clenched audibly as she let out a frustrated huff. Her fists curled at her sides before she finally growled under her breath, turning to the Harpers.

"Move!" she ordered. "We go together."

As the platform shuddered and began its slow descent, Astarion cast Jaheira a sideways glance, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"You could have stayed up there and waited for the next one," he mused, a smirk playing on his lips. "But, either way... the rest of us were going down there now."

Jaheira glared at him but said nothing.

The platform shuddered beneath them as the elevator descended, the battle below unfolding in visceral, brutal strokes. Astarion's grip on his sword tightened as his crimson eyes followed Durge's relentless assault, their blade a silver blur as they cut through Ketheric's defenses. The death knight staggered back, his armor cracked, necrotic energy sputtering around him like dying embers.

Then - Durge struck.

The blade plunged deep into Ketheric's chest, piercing through the corrupted flesh, black ichor spilling out in thick, steaming rivulets. The battlefield seemed to pause for a single heartbeat as Ketheric Thorm - so mighty, so wretchedly immortal - let out a choking breath and crumpled, his lifeless body tumbling backward into the pit at the center of the ring.

Silence.

Astarion's breath remained held in his chest, something wrong prickling at the back of his neck.

Then the chamber groaned.

A terrible, ancient force shuddered through the walls, rattling through the very bones of the world. The pit - an abyss of unnatural, swirling green light - boiled with energy.

The air plummeted in temperature. The scent of rot and dust, of earth long undisturbed, clawed at Astarion's senses.

Then-

A hand - a massive, skeletal hand - lunged out of the abyss.

It crashed against the stone ring, fingers curling with impossible weight. Bone, blackened and ancient, creaked as it pulled itself upward, a deathly groan echoing through the cavernous space.

A second hand emerged, fingers dragging along the stone, digging deep grooves into the floor as it heaved itself further from the pit. From the debris below, something long-buried shifted - a weapon, half-consumed by time, lifted from the rock as if answering an unspoken command.

A scythe.

It flew into the skeletal grasp as if it had always belonged there, the gleaming, curved blade catching the sickly light of the chamber.

Then the voice came.

A rasping, dreadful thing that settled into the bones and coiled in the marrow.

"You dare end one who belongs to me?"

The words reverberated, rattling the very walls, pressing down like the weight of centuries forgotten.

Astarion's fangs clenched, his body locked in place as he felt the ancient presence sink into the world around them.

The skeletal figure that emerged from the green pit was like nothing Astarion had ever seen. Its body was impossibly tall and thin, composed of ancient, pitted bone that gleamed with an eerie yellow-green light. The ribcage was warped, jagged like broken iron wrought into unnatural symmetry, its center holding the suggestion of a void where a heart might have once been. Chains hung from its skeletal frame, rattling faintly with every deliberate movement, and skulls swung like macabre ornaments at the ends of the links.

Its head was crowned by a triangular, bone-carved sigil, adorned with smaller skulls that seemed to grin mockingly from their sockets. Shredded, blackened drapery hung from the figure like decaying funeral shrouds, billowing faintly despite the still air. Wisps of pale smoke curled from ornate censers that swung lazily at its sides, the scent of ancient death and forgotten crypts wafting into the chamber.

The scythe it gripped was equally grotesque, its blade impossibly long and jagged, etched with the screaming faces of the damned. The haft was adorned with twisted bone and infernal gold, its entire form exuding an unnatural power that seemed to chill the very air around it.

The figure's hollow eyes burned with green fire, its gaze sweeping across the chamber with a weight that froze the blood in Astarion's veins. Then it spoke again, and the sound reverberated through every stone, every trembling bone, every fragile soul within its reach.

"I am the smile of the worm-cleansed skull. I am the regrets of those who remain, and the restlessness of those who are gone. I am the haunt of mausoleums, the god of graves and age, of dust and dusk. I am Myrkul, Lord of Bones, and you have slain my Chosen."

Astarion's grip on his sword tightened reflexively, though he doubted the weapon would do anything against such a being. His throat tightened as he cast a glance toward the elevator controls.

"I don't suppose," he said, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence, "there's a reverse button on this thing?"

Jaheira let out a sharp breath through her teeth, the sound more frustration than fear. Her glare could have withered even the most hardened adventurer.

"This," she growled, her knuckles white as she gripped her staff, "is why I told you to wait."

The elevator continued its slow, inexorable descent. Below, the figure of Myrkul turned its burning gaze toward Durge and the others on the platform, the very air trembling with the weight of its malevolence.

Astarion's chest tightened as the realization settled over him: they were descending straight into the maw of death itself.