04 Hollow
Ada woke to birdsong she didn't recognize, the scent of dewy grass, and the uncomfortable realization that she'd slept—but wasn't rested.
Her body had recharged somewhat, sure. But exploding into an owlbear, it turned out, really did a number on your muscles and joints. Ada felt sore all over. Her hands felt heavy and her shoulders still screamed from the weight of her gear and backpack.
The moment she opened her eyes, she knew her soul hadn't caught up either. There was still a tightness behind her sternum. That quiet, dragging pull that tried to whisper to her with painful promises.
She lay still for a moment, blinking at the crowns of trees above her. Light filtered through in patches, catching on floating dust motes and swaying leaves. It was beautiful. Serene. And yet, all she could feel was the thrum of pressure in her chest.
Too many days without quiet. Too many decisions. Too many people. Always someone needing, talking, watching. And not one moment to unravel the noise inside her own head.
Her bedroll rustled softly as she sat up. Her fingers rubbed at her eyes, then at her temples. She ran a hand through her messy curls, her fingers still catching on her horns, still surprised to find them there.
The familiar thoughts crept back into her head. The insisting voice telling her: You're fine. You have no reason to feel like this. You're being dramatic. You have food. You're alive. Just stop whining and keep going.
Ada's jaw tightened. She'd learned to push this pulling pain aside years ago. It was a skill. One that had kept her functional, kept her from giving in to the heaviness of it all. Ada knew how to push through. She could do it again now. She would.
Ada inhaled. Deep, slow. Smelled damp earth, faint tree bark. Heard the low murmurs of camp life beginning. A routine that was kind of familiar by now. Almost normal. As normal as it could be, when you were travelling through this land far from home.
Gale was humming quietly as he boiled water for breakfast tea, Lae'zel sharpened something with unnecessary menace. Shadowheart wasn't speaking, watching camp life with her usual air of detachment. Astarion was stretching somewhere nearby, every movement fluid and elegant. It was almost unfair.
Ada exhaled. Folded up the blanket. Rolled the bedroll with steady hands. Not too slow, not too fast. Everything in order. The movements were less clumsy, more practised than her first tries. This did have something reassuring to it.
She crouched by the river to wash, tying back her rats' nest of curls the best she could. Then changed into her day clothes—one movement after the next. Muscle memory. Nothing more. Her body moved through the routine like clockwork. Her thoughts did not.
They lagged behind, dragging their feet like a child who didn't want to go to school. There was a weight in her limbs that didn't match the air around her. Like she was walking through water. Or like her jerkin wasn't made of leather—but lead.
But none of that mattered. Not really. She would get up. She would smile just enough. She would ask if anyone needed help. She would keep moving. It was what she always did. What she was good at.
No one needed to know that her chest felt hollow. That her throat had felt coarse since the moment her eyes had opened. That there was a bruise under her ribs where no one could see it. A bruise made of fears she couldn't name out loud, an overwhelm she had no time to process and a gnawing sense of homesickness.
The latter was the most absurd, Ada thought. Feeling homesick meant, she had finally accepted she was really in Faerûn and that this was all real. Denial was harder to uphold every day though. And her thoughts kept drifting back to Frankfurt. To her friends. To Leah.
But when Ada returned to the group and Gale handed her a lightly chipped mug of tea, none of it showed. Ada made sure of it. Not the ache. Not the fear. Not the bone-deep loneliness. Because that's what you do when you've had no chance to fall apart: you hold yourself together and get on with it.
Breakfast was a tense, mostly silent affair. The group had struggled to reach any kind of consensus about what to do next.
Lae'zel was insistent—relentless, really—on tracking down a tiefling called Zorru, who had reportedly seen a Githyanki patrol. She was convinced that path would lead to the nearest crèche, and with it, a cure for their tadpoles.
He might not have shared her reverence for the gith, but Astarion wanted the tadpole gone more than anything—and if Lae'zel's path offered the fastest route to freedom, he was willing to risk it. So the elf had agreed with her, his tone cool and detached. His priorities were clear, and helping tiefling refugees wasn't among them.
Meanwhile, Shadowheart had been just as vehement in her refusal to go anywhere near a Githyanki stronghold.
Gale had argued it might be best to try and find the First Druid, Halsin, first. He seemed to know a lot about their condition already and might be the less aggressive option, compared to the crèche.
Ada had to agree; that path felt less suicidal. Goblins were hardly ideal, but a druid with answers sounded a lot better than whatever waited in a militarized gith base. And if they could return to the grove with Halsin, it might also interfere with Kagha and her damned ritual.
In the end, with no real decision made, they'd agreed to head into the grove to gather more information. Then they'd choose their path. And hopefully the one that would not end in their death or squid-fication.
They entered through the same gate they had fought to defend yesterday. The morning light was bright, almost too clean, too gentle for the sight that met them.
Goblin corpses still littered the area by the gate—limbs twisted unnaturally, skin bloating in the sun. Ada felt her stomach twist. The breeze shifted and the smell hit her, sour and coppery. She didn't stop walking, but she did look away.
They followed the winding path into the heart of the grove, past Arron's market stall and onto a wooden platform that hugged the cliffs above the refugee camp. It was commonly simply referred to as the hollow.
From up here, the grove opened into a wide, cavernous space below: tents clustered like mushrooms on damp stone, smoke curling from early cook fires, the quiet buzz of morning stretching through the air.
Among the tents, some vendors had set up shop in the hollow. One man sold basic clothing, most of them already worn and carefully repaired. An old woman in another stall was hunched over a black cauldron. Above it all, on the platform, something more focused was happening.
Ada slowed at the edge, spotting a small group mid-training. The sound of wooden swords clashing echoed faintly, but her attention was drawn to the man leading the session.
She recognized him, had seen him during the battle at the gate just yesterday. The theatrical one, with the rapier and the storybook hero's entrance.
He moved differently now, more grounded. Still confident, still with that sense of deliberate presence—but softened somehow. Less battlefield drama, more steady mentor.
"Go on," he told a young tiefling, maybe twelve at most. "Give me your best shot."
The kid lunged. The man parried easily, though he made it look close. The child lost his grip and cried out, sword clattering to the floor.
The man crouched and offered his hand, voice calm. "Not bad. Again."
"I can't do it," the boy mumbled, face scrunched with frustration. "I'm not like you."
Ada watched as Wyll knelt, placing a steady hand on the boy's shoulder. "I don't need you to be like me," he said. "You just have to buy enough time to run. Come on. I believe in you. You can do this."
It was warm. Sincere, even. Astarion scoffed quietly beside her, the noise sharp and judgmental. Ada couldn't quite disagree. The man had a flair for dramatics. But still.
"It's good advice, kid," she called, arms loosely folded. "You should listen to him."
Wyll nodded once, then looked back at the boy. "You're on the right path, Umi. Go on now—practice what you've learned."
As Umi scampered off, Lae'zel's voice rang out from behind them, flat and full of disdain. "Chk. Running is cowardice. That whelp should have trained since he could hold a blade. This softness borders on madness."
Wyll turned slightly, gave her a look, but said nothing. Instead, he looked toward Ada, who was standing closest to him.
Only up close did she notice that his right eye wasn't real. In its place sat a grey orb, smooth and stone-like, with a faint circular line in the centre that mimicked an iris. The pupil was as dark as the one in his other eye. It wasn't still either; it moved in sync with his gaze, tracking the world around him just like the real one.
She saw the tiniest shift in his expression the second before he spoke. The lightness in his eyes dimmed slightly, joined by a flicker of something more guarded. Perhaps a hesitance born of uncertainty about this eclectic band of travellers standing before him.
"Well met.", he nodded to Ada politely. "My name is Wyll. The Blade of Frontiers at your—"
The sentence broke off mid-syllable. Ada was caught in a sensation that was growing all too familiar. It surged through her. The unnatural pull, the tightening behind her eyes.
Their tadpoles reacted, sparking between their minds like a snapped wire. Her vision blurred. She wasn't in the grove anymore.
He was running. Through a scorched hellscape, the sky thick with ash and heat. His lungs burned. Ahead, a monstrous figure roared—a woman, maybe, or a demon—red-skinned and wreathed in flame, a greataxe dripping with blood. Rage pulsed off her like heat.
Then it was gone.
The vision snapped away, leaving only the quiet of the grove and the faint ringing in Ada's ears. Wyll stood frozen, shoulders stiff, his expression shaken.
"Hells' great fires," he muttered. "You were on the ship."
Ada steadied herself, exhaling. "So were you, it seems. And we both carry parasites."
He nodded, recovering. "Hm. Doomed to shed our skin and become illithid—or so the stories go. But we haven't sprouted any tentacles." He huffed humorlessly and met Ada's eyes again. "Not yet, anyway."
Ada was about to respond when it happened again.
Their minds collided with no warning—another surge of unnatural force that gripped her thoughts and pulled her under. She barely had time to breathe before the vision took her.
Wyll was chasing someone. No—hunting. The world burned around him, smoke and ash churning underfoot. Ahead, a woman tore through the battlefield like a living inferno.
Her skin glowed with fire, her black hair and horns surrounded by a corona of flame. Rage twisted her face into something monstrous. She looked like she was the devil herself. And Wyll pursued her with single-minded fury, ignited by a conviction that bordered on holy.
Ada staggered slightly when the vision faded, the image of the fire-wreathed woman still etched behind her eyes. There was something about her—familiar in a way Ada couldn't quite place. The woman seemed no less dangerous than the devils on the ship, but something about her felt different.
"Shit," Wyll muttered beside her. His jaw was tight, voice low. "You saw her. Advocatus diaboli."
The phrase landed hard inside her head, much like the vision had. Ada blinked, frowning. Her Latin was rusty, but passable enough to make sense of his words.
"The devil's advocate?" she asked.
Wyll gave a single nod. "Her name is Karlach. A soldier of an archdevil, loosed from the Hells. I swore on my good eye to kill her. Tracked her across the planes, all the way to the mind flayer ship."
He hesitated, his expression tightening. "But the bastards infected me before I could end her."
There was something in his tone now—something she'd heard before. That storybook hero cadence. He straightened slightly as he continued, voice shifting into something noble and declarative.
"She's still out there, preying on the innocent. If I don't stop her, she'll leave behind nothing but scorched villages and corpses."
Ada met his gaze evenly. Trying her best to look confident and competent at once. "I'm looking to cure this infection," she said. "So I suggest we partner up."
Wyll considered her for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Karlach is my mission. I can't let her bring more harm to the Sword Coast." There was no doubt in his voice.
"That said," he added. "I'm in no position to be turning down help. Especially not with a tadpole burrowing into my brain. So yes—we'll hunt for a cure. And we'll stop the devil together."
From behind them, Lae'zel scoffed. "Chk. A worthy ally, perhaps. But I'll waste no time chasing devils while a tadpole feasts on our skulls."
Wyll didn't flinch when he met Laezel's gaze. "I've seen your people in battle," he said. "You're no mere warrior. You're a godsdamned army."
Laezel's eyes fixed on Wyll, something almost like approval in the young woman's eyes. Then he turned to Ada, his smile returning—genuine this time, not rehearsed.
"And you—I've witnessed what you are capable of. A woman who can turn into an owlbear? I'd be a fool to let you turn your back." He extended a hand to Ada. "Pledge me your talents, and I'll pledge you mine."
Ada shook his hand, despite her quiet unease about his reference to her transformation yesterday. Lae'zel grunted again, unimpressed.
"I'll presume that's Githyanki for 'yes,'" Wyll said, with just the right amount of charm. He looked to each member of the group in turn, that commanding presence settling back over his shoulders like a familiar cloak.
"So—What's the plan?"
The group lingered only a few minutes more before making a decision. With no clear direction forward, they chose to split up and gather what information they could.
Lae'zel remained fixated on the tiefling named Zorru and Astarion volunteered to go with her—his voice casual, almost amused.
To Ada's quiet relief, Shadowheart agreed to accompany them. It was surprising, but she'd volunteered all the same. As cold and cutting as Shadowheart could be, there was a line she seemed unwilling to cross. And Ada hoped that she could act as a check on Lae'zel's more brutal tendencies.
Ada still wanted to speak to Zevlor. The unrest in the grove felt too precarious to ignore, and if they were truly heading toward a goblin camp, she didn't want to do it blind. To her, this wasn't about storming a war camp or picking a side in a civil conflict—it was a rescue mission.
Find the camp. Locate Halsin. Get him out, quietly if possible, and avoid provoking open violence. If that worked, if they could return the first druid, maybe all would turn out fine.
More than that, Ada wanted to know who Halsin really was. Nettie and Rath had spoken of him with such quiet conviction, like he was more than a leader—like he was the benevolent patriarch. If anyone could make the others see sense, if anyone could bring the druids back from the brink, it was him.
And if there was even a chance he could help them with the parasites, then this might be the one plan that helped everyone. Not just her. Not just their strange little group. But the tieflings, too.
Wyll offered to take her and Gale to Zevlor, explaining that the tiefling had set up a sort of office in the hollow below, where the refugees were camped. Ada nodded, grateful. The three of them set off down the winding paths of the grove, while the others disappeared in the opposite direction.
They agreed to meet later at a crooked little market stall near the centre of the grove, where an elderly woman sold potions and fussed over passersby like a doting aunt.
Ada glanced back once before turning to follow Wyll and Gale toward a narrow cavern tucked into the rocky hillside.
The tension inside hit before they even crossed the threshold. The air was heavy—too warm, too still. Inside, Zevlor stood in the middle of a dimly lit space alongside a fierce-looking tiefling woman whose red-glowing eyes caught the torchlight like coals.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders in a blood-coloured mane, wild and unbound. They were mid-argument—voices low, sharp, thick with frustration.
"I'm telling you, we can't sit around waiting for Kagha to come to her senses," the woman—Cerys, Ada remembered—said, fists clenched at her sides. "She's venomous, Zevlor. And the other druids will not stand up to her. If we don't act, we'll be cut off and slaughtered."
There was a tense pause and then, with a cautious tone, as if waiting to see how Zevlor would react, the woman added "We need to get rid of Kagha."
Zevlor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he'd done it a hundred times already today. "The thought has crossed my mind, Cerys. But we can't just march into the grove and overthrow her. That's a bloodbath. We need a way that doesn't end in more death."
The room shifted as the two finally noticed the new arrivals. Zevlor straightened slightly, weariness still clinging to his features but tempered by recognition.
"You've returned," he said. His voice was tired, but not cold. "What news do you bring from Kagha?"
Ada exchanged a glance with Gale, then stepped forward. "Arabella is safe," she said. "But Kagha... she won't listen. She's set on completing the Rite of Thorns. No matter the cost."
Cerys gave Zevlor a grim look, lips curling in bitter satisfaction. Zevlor didn't rise to it.
His shoulders slumped, and for a moment he looked every bit as defeated as Ada felt. He let out a slow breath, as if trying to exhale the weight pressing down on all of them. Still, she saw no blame in his face—just quiet resignation.
Ada's mind churned. The druids were either rallying behind Kagha or too afraid to speak out against her. And the goblins, they were still out there, still closing in.
She could feel it in the air. These people were on the edge—pinned in place by fear and dwindling options.
Wyll stepped forward, voice steady. "I heard the goblins have desecrated an old temple in the area. How far are they from here?"
Cerys moved to a nearby table and unrolled a worn, creased map. Her finger landed on a point nestled past the edge of the grove.
"They've taken over an old temple of Selûne," she said. "Just beyond a village they raided. It's well-guarded."
Selûne, Ada noted. Nettie had mentioned the temple yesterday. The name tugged at her memory. Selene—the moon goddess from Greek myth. The similarity was hard to ignore. It made Ada wonder: Was Selûne the same kind of figure here? A moon goddess? A protector?
Ada tucked the thought away for later. Gale would probably know more. And honestly, she was curious what this world believed in, what it worshipped, what it feared.
Nettie had also mentioned the temple as a convergence point for the infected. So the goblins were tied to this thing too? Ada supposed it made sense. She remembered how many of them she'd seen aboard the nautiloid. Whatever this parasite was—it was spreading. Organizing. And now it had a foothold in a desecrated temple.
However, the words raided village and heavily guarded pressed harder against her thoughts than any curiosity could. Every detail made this mission sound less like a strategic infiltration and more like walking straight into a blood-soaked trap. Was this really that much better than the crèche?
Then again, where better to find answers than at the source? Halsin had gone there for a reason. He was a healer who had studied these things. And besides, it wasn't solely about the tadpole anymore.
"Maybe..." Ada began, voice uncertain, "maybe we could... have a look?"
Gale arched an eyebrow at her, the tilt of it speaking volumes, but he said nothing.
Ada pressed on, turning toward Zevlor now. "We will not be able to take the whole camp. But if we can find the First Druid, if we can sneak him out, we might be able to turn this around."
Even as she said it, the plan sounded fragile. She felt the familiar tickle of nerves as her tail brushed lightly against the back of her leg—a new habit, half-conscious, grounding. Her fingers curled at her sides. The whole thing was held together with hope and little else.
But she held Zevlor's gaze and added, quietly, "It's worth a shot."
Zevlor's expression was sceptical, but not dismissive. "You would risk so much to help us?" he asked, brow furrowed. "I won't lie to you—the chances of success are slim."
Ada hesitated. She didn't want to lie either, but she wasn't about to tell him the whole truth. Mentioning the tadpoles felt unwise—too strange, too personal, and far too dangerous to speak aloud in front of people who might already be one bad news away from panic.
But she also didn't want him to think they were doing this purely out of altruism.
"This isn't just about helping," she said carefully. "But helping you might help us, too."
Zevlor regarded her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing—not suspicious, exactly, but thoughtful. Like he was weighing something unseen. Ada shifted slightly, her tail flicking once behind her. The longer his gaze lingered, the more she felt like she was being assessed. Not for lies, but for resolve.
"If you truly mean to try…" He trailed off, then turned, moving toward a nearby chest tucked against the cavern wall.
The hinges creaked softly as he opened it. From within, he pulled a pair of gauntlets—dark metal edged with silver, their surface dulled in places by use, but still gleaming faintly where the light caught the curves of the plates.
Articulated joints lined each finger, giving the gloves a flexible, almost skeletal quality. Not just sturdy—protective. These weren't the kind of gloves worn by scouts for warmth; they were made for the front lines, for turning aside blades and bearing the weight of war.
"These belonged to a Hellrider, one of the few who fought to defend the people of Elturel. I'm giving them to you as a token of my thanks—for offering to help us, and for your bravery at the gate."
Ada took the gloves in both hands, their weight both symbolic and physical. She didn't know much anything about Hellriders, but the name had a weight to it. And the way Zevlor said it, reverent and quiet, made it sound less like a gesture of thanks and more like passing down a relic.
She hesitated. There was something about them, beyond the craftsmanship and the history. A feeling. A faint hum beneath the surface, like a whisper on the edge of hearing. Not strong, not like the portal's pull or the Idol's aura, but there, if she focused. Like a low, melodic note sustained in the back of her mind.
She wasn't sure if she should take them. Was she worthy of this? Did she even want to carry something so significant?
But then she saw the look in Zevlor's eyes, the flicker of hope that hadn't quite dared to settle there, but glimmered all the same. Not for her, maybe. But for something. A future. A chance.
Ada nodded once and tucked the gloves gently into her pack. "Thank you," she said, soft and breathless.
As she turned, she caught Gale's gaze lingering on the gloves. His expression unreadable—curious, maybe. Or calculating. He looked away before she could place it.
They regrouped at the potion stall as planned. Lae'zel, Shadowheart, and Astarion were already there, waiting. Lae'zel looked particularly smug—a warning sign if there ever was one.
"We found this Zorru," she announced, holding up a scrap of parchment with a rough map drawn on it. Her tone dripped with satisfaction. "He pointed out where the githyanki patrol was last seen."
Astarion stepped in before anyone else could speak, flashing a sharp grin. "Oh, she made him kneel, all right. It was delightful, watching him squirm in the dirt. She only allowed him back on his feed once he'd told us what we needed."
Ada frowned, her stomach twisting at the gleeful note in his voice. She shot him a look, then glanced at Shadowheart, who only shrugged, her expression dry. So much for reigning in the gith warrior.
"There was no need for scare-tactics," Ada said, turning to Lae'zel. "Or that kind of degradation."
Lae'zel responded with a sharp, disdainful look. "Would you have me coddle them? Pat the teethling on the head and offer comforting words? Absurd."
Shadowheart crossed her arms and gave Ada a look that said See? What was I supposed to do? I told you what her kind is like.
Ada exhaled and corrected her quietly. "Tiefling, not teethling."
For a moment, Lae'zel looked genuinely perplexed, her narrowed eyes flicking between them. Then she scoffed, lips pressed into a hard line, but she said nothing more.
"Anyway," Astarion drawled, waving a hand as if clearing the air, "we also met a blacksmith. Over there."
He nodded toward a modest workstation set up beneath a canvas awning, the air around it shimmering faintly with heat.
"His name's Dammon," Astarion added. "Might be useful to us."
A young male tiefling stood at the forge, sleeves rolled up, his arms dusted with soot and the shimmer of sweat. His skin was a warm bronze, with a hint of tangerine, and smooth despite the rough work of his trade.
His horns curled upwards in elegant twists, dark and polished like obsidian. His hair was pale blond, shaved on the sides in a neat undercut, the longer top section pulled back into a tidy bun that kept it clear of his face and the flames.
A green scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, the rest of his attire utilitarian—leather straps, steel buckles, an apron darkened with use but clearly well cared for. He moved with a kind of calm confidence, hammering at a glowing piece of metal with rhythmic, deliberate strikes.
Ada watched him for a moment longer than she meant to. He was pretty. Pleasing to look at. Balanced. His features sharp but graceful, the shape of his horns almost elegant. She didn't feel drawn to him, exactly—just quietly appreciative, the way she might linger on a sunrise or the shimmer of magic in still water.
"Can we go?" Astarion asked, his tone lilting with impatient, almost childish affectation. "I'm bored. And besides, that woman is giving me a rather... unpleasant feeling."
He flicked his eyes across the market square, toward the small potion stand opposite Dammon's forge.
The woman tending it was bent over a blackened cauldron, stirring something thick and steaming. Her hair was a shock of bone-white, her patched clothes looked humble.
But she stood just a little too straight and too alert for someone her age. Her skin was creased and papery, but her movements were smooth, as if her joints belonged to someone much younger.
Overall though, she looked like a good old witch from a fairytale, Ada thought. Nice, friendly, if a little doting.
"I'm sure her potions are perfectly safe," Astarion added with a saccharine smile. "Assuming you enjoy waking up without your memories."
That made Ada pause.
She glanced again at the old woman—still humming, still smiling—and found herself suddenly unsure. Astarion's tone was flippant, but his eyes hadn't left the cauldron. And if there was one thing Ada was learning, it was that the elf's instincts were rarely wrong when it came to dangers.
Before they could move on, a commotion broke out near the edge of the settlement. Voices were raised—loud, raw, and full of fury. Ada turned toward the noise and spotted the source near a cluster of wooden panels lashed together like a crude wall. Behind them, half-hidden, sat a makeshift cage. Inside was a goblin prisoner.
The goblin's skin was a mottled olive-brown. Her face was sharp and cruel, with a scar running across her broad nose. A tattered tunic hung off one shoulder, the fabric caked with dirt and old blood. Her deep red hair was shaved on one side and left to fall in a wild, jagged sweep over the other.
A strip of feathers was lashed to her shoulder like some crude decoration, and there was a skull affixed to her belt, grinning at the world as if mocking it.
The goblin was shouting—half obscenities, half pleas—and the desperation in her voice was unmistakable. In front of the cage stood two tieflings. The woman had a crossbow levelled at the goblin's head, her arms stiff with tension. Her expression was tense, her face pale with fury and grief.
"You killed my brother!" she cried, her voice breaking. "Your kind slaughtered him!"
Ada's heart dropped. She must be talking about the young man from the gate yesterday, the tiefling who'd died in the skirmish, the one they'd heard arguing with Aradin.
The man beside her held up his hands, trying to talk her down. "This isn't the way, Arka. Killing her now won't bring him back."
The prisoner continued alternating between insults and panicked bargaining, her wide eyes darting between the two tieflings.
Ada was already moving before she could think better of it. Her steps quickened as she approached the scene. This wasn't justice. This was a prisoner in a cage, and Ada couldn't stomach the idea of an execution carried out in the name of grief.
There had to be a reason this goblin had been kept alive this long. Someone wanted information. A bolt through the temple would offer Arka a moment of release, maybe—but it would silence whatever the goblin might still reveal.
Ada raised her hands, stepping between Arka and the cage.
"He's right," she said gently. "Whatever you do won't bring your brother back. Killing her might feel good for a moment, but the grief will still be there when it fades. Please, reconsider this."
Beside her, Astarion let out an audible groan and muttered something under his breath—something about theatrical heroics. Ada ignored him.
Of course, that was the exact moment the goblin perked up behind her and started howling.
"Yesss! The Absolute has sent a savior! Praise Sazza's glorious freedom! Sazza is chosen! Chosen!"
Ada nearly flinched. Shit, that did not help.
For a long moment, Arka stood frozen, her crossbow still trained on the goblin, her jaw clenched. Her gaze flicked to Ada, then to the goblin, then back again.
Ada could almost feel the fight playing out inside Arka: grief and fury and fear all braided into something too tangled to unravel on the spot.
Grinding her teeth, Ada suppressed the urge to scream at Sazza, to make her shut up. The goblin wasn't the point. The principle was.
"Please," Ada said, her voice lower now, steadier. "She's not worth it. Step away."
The tension broke all at once. With a howl of frustration, Arka lowered her crossbow and turned sharply, storming off without another word. Her companion hesitated only a second before following.
"Yes! Yesss! The Absolute protects Sazza! The Absolute has sent a savior!" Her voice cracked with joy, too loud, too wild. She clutched the bars with both hands, her eyes shining with manic fervour.
"Sazza will be free! Dror Ragzlin will lead us to glory! Priestess Gut has shown us the truth! The drow was right! The Absolute will end the filth, the lies, the hellspawn! We'll burn them all, burn the infidels—praise be the Absolute!"
The goblin's voice climbed into a shriek, giddy and raw. Every word that poured from her mouth was soaked in fanaticism. There was no remorse in her and no fear. With death no longer in her face, there was only blind, zealous fervour left in the prisoner's demeanour.
Ada let out a breath that came out more exasperated than relieved.
Gale stepped up beside her, nodding to her. "That was impressive. Spoken like a true druid," he said. As she turned to him, Ada half-expected sarcasm, but saw only warmth and quiet respect in his eyes.
Before she could respond, she caught Shadowheart watching from a short distance away, arms crossed over her chest. The half-elf's expression was unreadable, but the subtle lift of one eyebrow said more than words: Was that really worth it?
Ada looked away. Why do you never think, before you act? You're a fool. Toughen up, or this world will break you.
Wyll came up on her other side and clapped a hand on her shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring. Ada nearly flinched.
The touch startled her. Not because it hurt, but because it was casual and spontaneous. Her body tensed out of instinct, and she had to catch herself before she pulled away. She wasn't used to people being this familiar. Or this close to her.
"That took some courage," Wyll said, oblivious to her reaction. "Even if I wouldn't call the subject deserving, there's something to be said for a woman who stands by her morals."
Ada managed a faint, crooked smile. Then, she glanced around the group. "Does anyone actually know what this 'Absolute' is? The goblin seemed fanatical, almost like she was possessed."
That earned her a round of silence. Astarion gave a noncommittal shrug. Gale shook his head silently. Shadowheart looked as though she wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
Lae'zel scoffed. "Ravings of a lesser creature. Do not listen to it."
Right. Of course, Ada thought, you guys know as much as I do, apparently. Never mind, then.
With the prisoner drama behind them, the group turned toward the grove proper. Their interrogations were finished, their new companion recruited, and their discussion about next destination looming—the goblin temple, or the gith patrol.
They decided to take one last walk through the settlement. A final sweep through the grove before setting out—one more chance to gather supplies, check in with the people they might be fighting for, and soak in what peace remained before it all, inevitably, turned bloody again.
For now, though, the grove was quiet.
Ada lingered for a moment at the eastern cliffs, letting the view settle in her chest like a weight and a balm all at once. The trees stretched toward the horizon, dappled in gold, and the wind carried the faintest scent of pine and lavender. She allowed herself to breathe. Just for a heartbeat.
They wandered further, along the line of the cliff, until they heard the faint sound of a lute. It sounded hesitant and interrupted, as though the player didn't trust the music coming from their own hands.
There, beneath the shade of an old oak, sat a young tiefling woman. She was perched on a low boulder, her lute cradled in her lap, fingers dancing over the strings with frustrated uncertainty.
Her skin was a pale violet-gray, almost seeming subtle against the rich hues of her outfit: bright patterns of coral and teal, gold bells stitched to her sleeves that caught the light when she shifted.
Her hair, thick and wavy, was dyed a vibrant purple and pulled back loosely to accommodate her curved black horns. She looked like she belonged on a stage—but right now, her face was scrunched in exasperation, her music halting and uneven.
Alfira, Ada remembered. Someone in the hollow said she was a bard.
As they approached, a strange ripple tickled Ada's mind, like static breaking through a too-quiet room. She glanced to the side and blinked when she realized what she was hearing wasn't distant conversation. It was coming from the two squirrels on the nearby tree stump.
"Ugh, again?" one of them whined, tiny paws pressed to its fuzzy head. "My ears! My poor ears!"
"The dissonance! The horror!" the other squeaked, flopping dramatically onto its back. "We're innocent creatures! We deserve better!"
Ada froze. Then blinked. Twice.
Can I really understand them? she thought, heart skipping. Okay. Sure. I can hear animals talk now. That's fine. Completely normal. Totally not unravelling reality.
A strangled sound escaped her—something between a chuckle and a whimper. Both Gale and Shadowheart turned to look at her.
Here goes nothing. Ada thought. They already think I'm losing it.
She nodded toward the tree stump. "The squirrels," she said, voice dry. "They're... complaining. About the bard."
There was a beat of silence.
"Apparently," Ada added, "squirrels in Faerûn are little assholes." She ended with a shrug that was meant to be nonchalant, but she could feel how forced it was. Still, it was better than panicking.
Shadowheart said nothing, though the angle of her brow suggested judgment or concern—probably both. Gale, however, tilted his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Speak with animals," he said, the phrase sounding almost like a title. "It's a druidic gift. Though it's rare to have it permanently. Usually it's invoked through spell or ritual."
Ada nodded slowly, her expression still half-wary. "Neat," she said, faintly. Their eyes met for a second. Gale's smile held, soft and reassuring. Ada returned it, just barely. Then she turned her attention back to the scene before them.
She stepped forward, eyes flicking between the still-grumbling squirrels and the bard on the rock, who sat hunched over her lute. The tune she played faltered under her fingers, notes half-formed and quickly abandoned. Her brows were drawn tight, frustration clear on her face.
Ada stayed quiet, resisting the very real urge to turn around and scold the squirrels. Her connection to nature seemed to be expanding in ways she hadn't anticipated—and the last thing she needed was to sound completely unhinged in front of a stranger. Especially one who already looked like she was barely keeping it together.
Still shaken from the standoff at the prison cage, Ada found unexpected comfort in the gentle cadence of the lute, fractured though it was.
Music had always been a refuge for her—something that grounded her. She had played guitar as a teen, even studied sheet music for fun. She'd loved theatre and storytelling, art and costume and the way emotions lived inside melodies.
But life had steered her elsewhere—into languages, into structure, into something practical. She'd chosen the stability of a career over the chaos of creativity.
"You can do this," Ada said softly, stepping closer.
The bard looked up, startled at first, but then her face softened. Her deep orange eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
"I don't know…" she sighed. "Without my teacher, I don't think I can finish this song."
Ada hesitated, listening. Even in its broken form, the song had promise. There was something raw in it, like emotion tucked between notes.
"It's already strong," she said. "There's feeling in it. I can hear it. Like a current running underneath." She repeated the bard's last faltering words, not just speaking—but singing them, gently: "Words of mine will turn to ash…"
The bard blinked. Then picked it up: "Words of mine will turn to ash, when you call the last light down…"
Ada gave a small nod, gesturing for her to continue.
The woman's face softened further, and with it, her hands found their strength again. She played hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. The melody returned, full and sweeping.
It rose around them, haunting and reverent—a song of farewell, of grief folded into grace. The bard sang of love lost and remembered, of pain reshaped into something beautiful. It swelled, then dipped low, each verse a thread weaving sorrow into tribute.
When the last note fell quiet, the grove felt stiller somehow. Ada blinked, her throat tight. "That was really powerful." Pause. "What's the song about?" she asked softly.
Alfira held her lute tightly, like it was the only thing anchoring her in place. "Lihala," she said. "My teacher. And friend."
Her voice cracked. She drew a shaky breath. "Sorry. Damn it."
Ada stepped a little closer. "It's all right. Let it out." She waited a moment, then added, gently, "Your song is beautiful. Your teacher would be proud."
"I don't usually—" Alfira stopped, composing herself. "I'm all right. I haven't finished a song since Lihala died. Haven't played at all, if I'm honest."
She looked away, voice lower now. "She was playing her lute. We didn't hear the gnolls coming."
Ada's stomach dropped.
"There was so much blood," Alfira whispered. "I can still smell it."
Ada was quiet, her voice hoarse when she finally spoke. "That sounds terrible. I'm sorry."
"It was awful," Alfira said. "I couldn't even look at a lute without hearing her scream." There was a heavy silence for a moment.
"Until now," Alfira said at last. "I'd forgotten what it was like, that itch in my fingers to get it right. The Weeping Dawn—it'll be my gift to her. Thank you. I... I needed this."
Ada nodded. "I hope you find more moments like that," she said. reaching out and gently touched Alfira's shoulder.
For a second, she thought she saw a flicker of pink-gold light, faint as candle flame, shimmer where her fingers met cloth. Alfira let out a long, shuddering breath, but there was calm in it now.
Ada smiled. "I know how much peace an instrument can bring."
Alfira paused, then nodded. "Yeah," she said, her voice quiet. "Yeah, it really can."
The group said nothing as they turned and walked on, leaving Alfira beneath the old tree, her song still hanging in the air like a blessing. And for a little while, no one broke the silence.
They had almost reached the gate of the grove when Ada spotted a man in vibrant blue-and-red brocade speaking animatedly to a large, extremely unimpressed bear.
The man looked like he had dressed from the pages of a costume book and lost a fight with the trim. His outfit was all puffy sleeves, ruffled cuffs, and elaborate stitching, topped off with a ridiculous blue bonnet-like hat.
A quill fluttered in one hand, his other arm balancing an overstuffed notebook. He looked like the kind of man who introduced himself with titles no one had asked for.
"And would you say," he was asking earnestly, scribbling as he spoke, "that your territorial instincts are strongest in early spring? Or is it more of a year-round expression of primal dominance?"
The bear blinked slowly. Then he seemed to take a deep breath.
"We have been at this for half an hour," the bear grumbled, its voice heavy with long-suffering exhaustion. It sounded like someone enduring a mild but persistent headache.
A talking bear. Ada gawked. Then remembered her earlier interaction with the squirrels. Permanent Speak with Animals. Right. Not that weird, apparently.
The man nodded enthusiastically, still scribbling. From his mutterings, Ada realized he hadn't understood a word the bear said. He was just talking at the bear, not really to him. Without magic. Making it all up.
Her steps slowed, curiosity and confusion dragging her to a stop. The others walked on, but Gale lingered beside her. Her thoughts were interrupted by the man's latest outburst.
"Glory!" he exclaimed. "Now then, I heard there were goblins at the gates yesterday. You must have witnessed them, no? How would you describe that particular batch of goblins? Size? Nature? Distinguishing qualities?"
The bear rolled its eyes. "We've been over this. I. Was. Sleeping. I didn't see any goblins!"
But the man was already scribbling away. "Goblins... were... of... rare... gem-coloured... hue..." he muttered, "...and... wielded... magic... blowguns... Right!"
Ada stared, incredulous. "What is wrong with that man?"
Gale merely shrugged. "That is Volo."
"You know him?"
Gale's brow lifted, and his mouth curled into that a half-smile—the one that always looked like it had a private joke tucked just behind it.
"Know him? In the broad sense. He's hard to avoid if you've ever stepped foot in a library—or a tavern with a bookshelf."
Ada blinked. "So he's insane. And he writes books?"
"In a way," Gale said, his voice equal parts pained and resigned. "He is very successful in his endeavors."
Ada gestured toward the scene in front of them. "He just tried to interview a bear. Without a spell. He made up magic blowguns and gem-colored goblins. You heard him."
Gale sighed. "Yes. And he'll probably publish it in his next volume: Volo's Guide to Imaginary Fauna."
Kind of upset by all this, Ada dragged a hand through her hair; indignant, and somehow still trying to make sense of the last couple of minutes.
"He's barely even a caricature of a bard, much less a serious researcher. He's completely delusional."
Gale gave her a long, solemn look. Then, slowly and deliberately: "He is neither. He's a wizard."
Ada blinked. "No."
"Yes."
"You're joking."
"I never joke about wizardry."
"But he's—! He talks to bears! He doesn't seem to have any kind of grip on reality. Gale, he's more confused than I am! And you're telling me he has studied magic?"
"He has studied something, certainly," Gale said, with just the hint of a smirk. "Whether it was magic or mere chaos is another debate."
Ada gaped at him, her face caught somewhere between disbelief, horror, and a grudging sliver of admiration for anyone who could be that ridiculous and still be breathing. Then she laughed.
"What kind of school lets him be a wizard?"
Gale exhaled dramatically. "The same one that gave him a spellbook and no adequate supervision." A beat. "I weep for the arcane arts."
His smile lingered, fond and ironic. "Of course, some of us used that lack of supervision to become prodigies. Others, well, others write guides about goblins with guns."
Ada's brows rose slowly. She let the silence stretch half a beat longer than it needed to before replying. "That's a lot of words to say you think you're better than everyone else."
The smile slightly froze on Gale's lips. Not enough to vanish, but enough to crack. "I prefer precociously insightful.", he said, carefully.
Ada gave a small, humourless chuckle. "Same thing. Just with better diction."
Gale made a soft humming sound in response—acknowledgement or deflection, she couldn't tell. A beat passed, then his expression shifted back into its usual, composed curiosity.
They said nothing else as they followed the others toward the gate, the quiet between them filled by the crunch of footsteps on stone and the rustle of leaves in the wind.
To Ada's great relief, the argument that had dragged through breakfast found its resolution more easily by the firelight.
Lae'zel was still fuming, of course—her crossed arms and aggressive silence were louder than words—but the rest of the group had landed, more or less, on a consensus.
Shadowheart remained firmly opposed to the crèche, and Wyll had voiced his refusal to abandon the tieflings. Gale, ever the scholar, wanted to uncover the full shape of the problem: the goblins, the tadpoles, the Absolute.
And when Astarion—sighing dramatically—threw his hands to the stars and proclaimed that if they had to play heroes, he would at least tag along so he could say "I told you so" when someone ended up with a goblin arrow in their back, the discussion was more or less settled.
The goblin camp at the desecrated temple would be their next stop.
The companions had settled into their usual evening rhythms after that. Bedrolls unrolled. Swords sharpened. The fire crackled low and steady.
Gale had taken his place by the cookfire once more, and this time Wyll had joined him, sleeves rolled up, helping chop roots with the kind of theatrical grace Ada was already learning to expect from both men.
She sat close by, cross-legged on her own bedroll, sipping lukewarm tea and half-listening—until their conversation caught her full attention.
"Tell me, Wyll," Gale said, voice light with curiosity. "How did you come to be the Blade of Frontiers?"
Wyll looked up, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He then paused, as though switching into storyteller mode. Which, Ada realized, he absolutely was.
"My father once said, 'One does not pursue a champion's life. One merely answers its call.' So it was for me."
Ada could already tell this was a speech he'd given before. Rehearsed. Polished. But something in it still held her attention.
"I was hunting near the Cloakwood when I heard it—a child, crying out from a lone farmstead. I found him in the fields, flanked by goblins. His mother's corpse bled into the soil next to him. I don't remember much of the battle. But I remember drying the boy's tears after."
Gale hummed softly, a sound of approval. "What act could be finer than saving a life? You must have felt proud."
"Proud?" Wyll shook his head. "No. Angry. Angry at the monsters preying on innocents. Angry at the so-called good gods for tolerating the cruelty of the evil. Angry at myself that it took me so long to see the Coast's suffering. The frontiers demanded a blade. And so I heeded."
Ada, leaning slightly forward now, tilted her head. "But when our tadpoles connected you were chasing a devil. In hell. How did that come about?"
Wyll nodded slowly. "Karlach's fires raged in Baldur's Gate before she escaped to Avernus. That's what my source told me. And she planned to return. One of Zariel's own—a devil with pure fire for a heart. Chaos incarnate." He met her gaze. "I made my way to Avernus to stop her."
Ada blinked. "I'm sorry—who is Zariel?"
Wyll stared at her. "You don't know Zariel?"
"There was a beat of awkward silence before Ada gave a small shrug. "It's a long story. I'm... not exactly from Faerûn. And I don't really know how things work here."
Wyll's eyes flicked to Gale, as if silently asking, Is she serious?
Gale nodded, sipping his tea like this sort of admission happened every day. "She's telling the truth."
Wyll blinked once. Then, slowly, he leaned back. "Huh. Well. All right then." He cleared his throat.
"Zariel is one of the archdevils. She rules the first layer of the Nine Hells—Avernus. Used to be an angel, if you can believe that. Led an army into hell and never came back. Now she commands the legions of the damned. And Karlach was one of her soldiers."
"Nine Hells. Archdevils. Fallen angels." She gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. "I think I have more questions now than I did before."
Wyll opened his mouth, possibly to continue—but Ada raised a hand, already smiling. "No, no. I believe you. It's just... a lot."
Gale, who had been listening with an expression of polite amusement, set his tea down and leaned slightly closer.
"Allow me," he said. "The short version?"
He held up one finger. "Zariel: once a noble angel, now queen of Avernus, the first of the Nine Hells."
Second finger. "Avernus: hell-adjacent wasteland where where devils fight eternal wars, souls are currency and everyone fights for the right to scream the loudest."
Third finger. "Karlach: a former soldier in Zariel's legions. According to Wyll, she's more inferno than person. A danger to all who cross her path."
He lowered his hand and smiled. "And Wyll, of course, is the poor soul who decided he could handle all three."
Ada blinked again. "Right," she said slowly. "That helps. Thank you." The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows that danced over the rocks. No one spoke for a moment.
But Ada found herself glancing at Wyll with new eyes—not as the storybook hero, but as someone shaped by fire and fury, who still chose to chase monsters so others didn't have to.
Ada stopped listening. Her thoughts had wandered.
Still seated on her bedroll, she found herself watching Gale. He moved around the campfire with quiet purpose, tending the evening meal. At some point, he'd quietly assumed the role of camp cook—not because anyone asked him to, but because someone had to, and he clearly preferred the role of methodical host to idle observer.
His hands worked with an easy, practised rhythm. Elegant, precise. Not fussy, but deliberate—like everything he did was part of some invisible ritual. She watched the way he handled the kettle, how he stirred with small, even motions, how he hummed to himself in the pauses between. Tuneless but steady.
Ada found it oddly calming. Something about it soothed the edges of her. The way he moved. The way the firelight caught the warm brown of his eyes when he glanced up. The slight curl of his fingers, elegant and capable. It wasn't attraction—not like that.
It was just...Nice. Familiar. Like the memory of a quiet kitchen, or late nights in a shared apartment, the distant clink of cutlery and someone else moving through the space like home.
Ada frowned. The sensation was strange. And unwelcome. She wasn't here to get comfortable, let alone attached.
It was probably just the routine of it—the human rhythm of food, of small tasks completed with care. In a world filled with blood, goblins, and brain-eating parasites, a man stirring a pot was almost absurdly comforting.
That had to be it. Gale was still pompous. Still occasionally insufferable and full of himself. Still a damned know-it-all. Right?
She shook her head like she could dislodge the thought, and turned her eyes away from the firelight before it could pull her in any further.
Ada quietly rose and made her way toward a quieter corner of camp—one tucked between a cluster of trees, far enough to feel out of sight, if not entirely alone.
The idea of changing in full view of the others made something tighten in her chest. It was more than the unfamiliarity of being here. It was the old discomfort, the kind that lived in mirrors and dressing rooms, the kind that whispered things she no longer wanted to believe, but hadn't entirely unlearned either.
Too soft here. Too visible there. Too many marks she didn't want to explain.
Besides, she'd finally picked up real camp clothes earlier today, and gods, it was about time. Sleeping in her jeans and top had felt wrong in more ways than one—culturally, physically, sensory. And at this point, her Earth clothes desperately needed a wash.
She peeled off her jerkin and the stiff travel shirt beneath it, then tugged on a fresh tunic made of soft, breathable fabric. It was a pale beige, simple but well-crafted, with a gently scooped neckline fastened by a loose, crisscrossed lacing.
The sleeves hung long and loose around her arms, and without thinking, she rolled them up to her elbows. The motion was automatic—one she'd done a thousand times before, back home. Before cooking, before writing, before getting to work.
It was familiar, anchored in muscle memory, and something about it helped ease the tension in her chest.
She tucked the hem neatly into the waistband of her wide, grey-green harem trousers, the fabric pooling softly around her legs. The change in weight and shape brought immediate relief after the long day—no straps, no armour, nothing pinching or pressing. Just soft fabric and air.
Next, she reached up to release her long pink curls from the ponytail that had been pulling at her scalp all day. The weight of her hair fell over her shoulders in a tumble. She paused, fingers moving through the strands, then smoothed her bangs and gathered the outer pieces back. A quick twist and pin. Just enough to keep them out of her eyes.
It was such a simple thing. But it grounded her.
She stood still for a moment longer, letting the cool air settle around her, the evening sounds of camp humming in the background. And she realized—she did feel better than she had that morning. Not good, just steadier. And a little more herself.
After everything—after the prisoner, the bickering, the strange bard song that had nearly made her cry—it surprised her. But she was grateful for it either way.
Finally, she slipped off her boots and let her bare feet sink into the cool grass. The ground was damp from the evening dew, and she curled her toes slightly, just to feel it. Ada exhaled, shoulders softening.
Ada joined the others at the campfire for dinner. She found herself sitting across from Gale, who looked up with a slight smile as she settled in, but said nothing. The conversation around the fire was light, the weariness of the day softening the usual banter.
Astarion, for once, seemed content to let the others talk without lacing the air with his usual venom. Even Lae'zel looked somewhat relaxed—though her gaze still swept the shadows like a sword waiting to be drawn. Shadowheart ate quietly, her expression unreadable, her focus flickering between her food and the flames.
Dinner passed slowly, and one by one, the group began to peel off toward their bedrolls or quiet corners of the clearing.
Ada had a different destination. After clearing her plate, she drifted away from the firelight, toward the grassy patch at the edge of camp. She just needed quiet. Just for a little while.
The stars overhead were unfamiliar, scattered in patterns she couldn't name. In the city, she'd only ever seen a handful of them—big, obvious ones like the Big Dipper. Here, the sky was a canvas of silver. Strange and endless. Beautiful, but also disorienting. No familiar landmarks. No anchor.
She lay down in the grass and propped herself up on her elbows, eyes tracing unfamiliar constellations, when a soft sound behind her made her glance back.
Gale stood a few paces away, his expression hesitant. Like he wasn't sure if he was interrupting. Ada gave a small nod, inviting him in.
He approached quietly and lowered himself to the grass beside her with that same smooth, practised ease. He sat cross-legged, hands resting lightly in his lap.
"You've been pensive this evening," he said after a pause, his voice quiet. "I hope you're all right. Despite... well. Everything."
Ada smiled faintly and looked back to the sky. "I think so. I just needed a moment of quiet. Besides, I'm fascinated by the stars here. It's all so different from what I'm used to."
Gale followed her gaze upward, the firelight catching softly on his profile. For a time, they said nothing, letting the stars speak for themselves. The cool air moved gently between them, and Ada felt the silence settle—not heavy, just still.
After a moment, she spoke again. "Lae'zel mentioned those," she said, nodding toward a cluster of stars that seemed to be following the moon across the sky. "She called them tears. What are they, actually?"
Gale's voice was a low hum. "The Tears of Selûne," he said. "They're a celestial trail—debris from a long-forgotten cosmic event, or so the astronomers claim. But to most people here, they're sacred."
Ada tilted her head slightly, curious. "Selûne," she repeated. "That name keeps coming up. Zevlor mentioned her. Nettie too. Who is she?"
Gale glanced at her, thoughtful. There was a softness to the way he looked at her, like he appreciated the question, and the chance to answer it.
"She's one of the older deities. The Moonmaiden. Goddess of the moon, of wanderers and mysteries. Associated with guidance, change, light in the darkness... that sort of thing."
Ada was quiet for a moment, taking that in. "Huh," she murmured. "Seems like a good one to have on your side."
Gale chuckled softly. "If she's watching, I'd certainly take it as a good sign."
After another beat, Ada recalled: he had been the one to approach her. That thought lingered as she turned slightly toward him, her voice softer now.
"Is there something you wanted to talk about?"
Gale hesitated, then nodded. "We've been on the road together for a while now, haven't we? Survived some perils, overcome some obstacles. Ever since you were kind enough to free me from that portal, I've seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and courage."
Ada blinked at the phrasing—guile was a word only Gale could deliver as a compliment.
"The way you convinced Kagha to release the girl. The way you stepped in to help Zevlor today." He met her eyes. "In short: I've grown to trust you."
Ada was caught off guard by his admission. The words were sincere, weighted, and for a moment she could only offer a small, cautious smile. "Thank you, Gale. That's... gratifying to hear."
Gale drew a slow breath and looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. "The reason I say this now is because I've reached a point where I feel confident enough to tell you something I've not shared with another living soul."
He paused, then added with a faint, fond smile, "Except my cat."
Ada's brow lifted slightly, but she didn't interrupt.
"You see," he continued, "I have a condition. One quite different from the parasite we share, but just as deadly."
That pulled her upright a little. "What kind of condition?"
"The specifics are... personal," he said, his voice low. "But I've learned to live with it. Though not without effort."
He glanced at her again, more vulnerable now. "What it comes down to is this: every so often, I need to get my hands on a powerful magical item and absorb the Weave inside it."
Ada blinked. "The Weave?"
"Ah. Of course." Gale straightened slightly, slipping easily into lecturer mode. "The Weave is the network of magic itself. It permeates everything. Every spell you see, every enchanted item—it's all drawn from the Weave. Think of it as... the threads of reality, pulled and shaped by those who know how to use them."
"Okay," Ada said slowly. "So... what kind of items are we talking about, exactly?"
"Staffs, tomes, amulets. The form doesn't matter. What matters is that they're brimming with Weave." His voice grew quieter again, more concerned. "It's been days since I last consumed an artefact—since before the mindflayer ship. And I need one. Soon."
Ada's brows knit together. "Gale, I want to help, but... that's a lot. Where are we even supposed to find something like that?"
His eyes lit up, and Ada felt her stomach drop even before he spoke. "We already have one," he said. "You have them in your backpack: Zevlor's gauntlets."
Ada stared at him, unable to reply. His eyes were fixed on his hands. "They're rare and powerful, Ada. It will only grow harder to find more. There may be danger. Or cost."
She looked at him, really looked—and saw it. The quiet ache in his voice. The discomfort behind the ask. This wasn't about greed. He would not ask this, if he had another choice.
Still, she shook her head slightly, trying to process. "You do realize this is a really strange request, right? Even for this world, it seems unusual."
Gale nodded, solemn. "I do. But this is my reality. One I'd never wish on anyone."
Ada didn't answer. Instead, she rose quietly to her feet and walked back toward her bedroll, the firelight casting long shadows behind her. Gale remained where he was, watching her go, uncertain.
She crouched beside her pack and rummaged through it with careful hands. Her fingers brushed cool metal, and she paused. She remembered the way Gale had looked at Zevlor's gift earlier—his gaze lingering just a second too long. It made sense now.
Ada stood again, the gauntlets tucked under one arm, and walked back toward the edge of camp. Gale was waiting where she'd left him, apart from the fire, from the others.
When she reached him, she didn't speak. She simply held out the gauntlets with, what she hoped, has a reassuring smile. Gale took them gently, almost reverently. His eyes met hers, full of unspoken things.
"Thank you," he said, voice barely above a whisper, clutching the gloves to his chest.
Whatever Ada had expected, the reality of it was stranger. Like watching something sacred go slightly wrong.
Purple light flared to life between the bones of Gale's collar, racing outward in a lattice of glowing veins. The gloves seemed to unravel into light, drawn into him with a sound like wind turning a page. His body arched back with a gasp, taut with the force of it, the Weave bending through him like a current too strong to resist.
Ada stared—equal parts awe and horror—watching his hands tremble, watching the light pulse inside him. Then, just as quickly, it ended.
Gale slumped forward, panting. His skin was pale, his voice shaky. "Oh yes," he whispered. "That hit the spot."
He closed his eyes, a faint, almost drunken smile pulling at his mouth. "I can feel it. The magic sings to me. It soothes the beast inside." His eyes opened again. The glow was gone, but something haunted lingered in his expression.
"A metaphorical beast, I haste to point out," he said quietly. "But no less dangerous. And no less bound to wake up again. Such is the nature of all monsters."
Ada swallowed, her voice uncertain. "It... it looked painful."
He chuckled, weakly. "It's not so bad, once you get used to it. And on the bright side, my tower in Waterdeep has never been so free of clutter."
The joke didn't quite land. His smile faltered, then faded. "I know I'm asking a lot. With very few answers in return. But in time, you'll know everything."
For a long moment, silence hung between them. Ada felt an almost overwhelming urge to reach out—to offer reassurance, a touch, anything that might soften the grief etched into Gale's expression. He stood before her, clearly upset, something in him fragile and frayed at the edges.
"Sit with me," she said gently.
Gale nodded and lowered himself beside her with his usual elegance, folding his long legs beneath him in one fluid motion.
Ada smirked, hoping to cut the tension with a flicker of humor. "So, you're a wizard who lives in a tower?" she asked. "A literal tower? Isn't that a bit of a cliché?"
Gale arched a brow, his mood easing, just slightly. "Ah, but it's a time-honored tradition. Towers offer solitude, space for study—and, importantly, a place to keep dangerous experiments away from prying eyes." He gave a soft scoff. "Besides, a wizard without a tower? That's like a bard without an instrument. Utterly ridiculous."
Ada chuckled, the corner of her mouth curling. The tension ebbed between them, replaced by a quieter, gentler kind of connection. "Fair enough," she murmured, then hesitated. "Do you have family in Waterdeep?"
Gale shook his head. "No. My mother lives elsewhere. But I do share the tower with Tara—my tressym. A winged cat, in simpler terms."
His voice warmed as he spoke. "When I was a child, I begged my parents for a kitten. They said no. So I summoned one. Benefits of a wizard's education, you see." He tilted his head, playful. "Of course my considerable talent didn't hurt either."
There it was again—that soft arrogance, that polished veneer. Ada opened her mouth, ready to tease him for it, but stopped when she caught his gaze. He was looking at her with a gentle expression. There was kindness there. And something else. Vulnerability, maybe.
He smiled to himself and continued. "Dear old Tara. Sharp as her claws, fond of sunbeams and sleeping on anything I need in a given moment."
Ada let the irritation melt away. "She sounds lovely."
"She is." Gale smiled. "And you?", he asked, shifting the focus back to her. "Do you have family back in your world?"
Ada's smile faltered. She nodded, her throat tightening as that morning's homesickness crept back in.
"Yeah. Though my parents don't live nearby. I live alone, in an apartment—well, I did." She paused, then added, with a soft, fond laugh, "But my friends lived close. We used to hang out a lot. Sunday dinners. Movie nights."
She hesitated, then her voice dropped lower. "Above all, I miss Leah. My best friend."
There was a breath of silence before she continued, half-laughing, half-sighing. "She'd be doing a lot better than me in all this. I am sure of it. She'd have talked Kagha down, marched straight into that temple, demanded the druid back, and come out without a scratch."
Ada huffed at herself, shaking her head. "I'm serious, kind of."
She paused again, more serious this time. "Truth is: I feel scared most of the time. Like I'm one wrong decision away from getting someone killed. Having Leah here—it would help. Just to have someone who understands. Who knows me. This is all... it's a lot."
She lifted a hand and wiped at her eyes, quick and subtle, hoping Gale didn't notice. Or if he did, that he didn't say anything.
His voice came quietly. "I've never been one to make many friends," he said. "I have acquaintances, colleagues... but beyond my work, it's usually just me and Tara."
He hesitated. Then added, with quiet honesty, "But I hope that despite the short time we've known each other, I can count you as a friend."
Ada blinked. The words hit harder than she expected. A warmth bloomed behind her ribs, slow and startling.
She nodded, smiling at him. "I'd be honored to be friends with Gale, the Great Wizard of Waterdeep."
He chuckled, and this time it was real. Slightly embarrassed. "Splendid." After a short pause he added, "And should the sky ever grow too heavy, know that you needn't face it alone. I'm rather good at sitting beside people. Quietly, even—if you really insist."
Ada chuckled at that, hardly able to imagine a silent version of the wizard. "Thank you, Gale", she said softly.
The moment stretched comfortably between them. Then Gale stood, brushing the grass from his hands. With a small, theatrical flourish, he offered her a slight bow. "My lady, I bow to your boundless kindness. Good night, Ada."
As he walked away, Ada felt a flutter in her chest—an unfamiliar warmth settling over her. She leaned back into the grass again, not quite ready to hit her bedroll yet. The memory of his voice and the way he had looked at her, lingering in her mind.
Something was shifting between them. It was not tangible, but it was there. Quiet. Comforting. A little unsettling.
She thought about his strange condition, the glow of magic running through him, the soft vulnerability he tried so hard to tuck beneath his polish. And how, despite everything, he'd offered her his trust.
She had not heard the footsteps behind her, so when he spoke, she startled slightly. "Stargazing alone?" Astarion's voice was smooth as silk, lilting with mischief. "That sounds awfully lonely, darling."
Ada turned her head slightly, watching him as he settled down directly beside her with his ethereal elegance.
"Evening, Astarion," she said simply, risking a sideways glance at him.
"You know, I've been thinking." He stretched his long legs out, gaze flicking lazily up to the sky. "Reflecting, really. On what tomorrow might bring, if we find this druid of yours. If he knows how to deal with our little brain worms. What if this grand adventure ends as suddenly as it began?"
Ada raised an eyebrow. "What? Will you miss me?"
Her tone was light, trying to joke—but there was a flicker of tension in her chest. Astarion still made her uneasy. Too pretty, too polished. There was something about him that didn't match the smiles he wore.
Astarion laughed, quick and sharp. "Why not? You've been pulled from your world, survived mind flayers, goblins, druids, rituals—and somehow, you're still upright. I'm not easily impressed, darling, but you're stronger than I gave you credit for."
That was the second time he'd called her "darling." There was charm in the word, yes, but it curled at the edges with something patronizing—like she was a game he'd already figured out.
As he spoke, his hand ran through his silver hair, the motion smooth and intentional—designed to highlight the graceful lines of his torso beneath his shirt. He looked like a statue she'd once seen in a museum in Florence—perfect form, carved from something cold.
Ada followed the movement, aware of it. Aware of herself. "I thought you didn't like me," she said, keeping her tone even.
Astarion turned to her, eyes reflecting what little light there was. "You have your charms. More than you think." He leaned in, voice dropping ever so slightly. "A lot more." The smile on his lips was dazzling—precise. Performed. And too close.
Ada leaned back instinctively, tension flickering beneath her skin. Her voice came smaller than she meant it to. "You're too close."
He stilled, then straightened with an exaggerated sigh. "Of course. Terribly sorry." The apology was smooth, but not sincere. "I was just going anyway," he added, already rising. His tone had shifted—tight, almost brittle. "I need to clear my head."
He glanced down at her one last time, something unreadable in his eyes. "I'm sure I'll see you when I get back. Sleep tight."
And with that, he walked off into the darkness.
