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Chapter Text

When she woke up amid the alien grotesquery of a Nautiloid, with the fires of Avernus burning through the hole in its hull and a ghaik tadpole wriggling in her brain, Lae’zel’s first thought was that she was in a nightmare. 

Then her mind cleared, and she remembered. The crash! 

She sprang to her feet, ignoring the relentless pounding in her skull, and willed herself to make sense of her surroundings. 

A nursery. The pool of larvae in the center revealed as much. This was where the ghaik infected their targets with their abominable tadpoles. To enthrall them. To turn them into more of their disgusting ilk.

They'd done that to her. Just the memory of that shameful moment was enough to make her shudder. Despite her rigorous training, despite her constant vigilance. 

The ghaik had put a tadpole in her.

The sharp fear that rose within her at that thought was nearly debilitating. But she clenched her jaw, gripped her sword, and steeled her will. She wasn't one of them—not yet. She still had a chance. So long as she acted without hesitation. 

A flash of movement from a nearby pod caught her eye. An istik, slumped against its window—unconscious, but twitching slightly in her sleep. A human woman, Lae’zel thought. Or was it an elf?  

For half a second, she stared at the istik, trying to decide whether to end her life. 

But if she slowed down, even for a moment, it would spell her doom.

She turned. Lifted her sword. And ran.

—

The next room was just as horrifying.

Brains in jars were heaped upon bizarre cartilaginous structures that might've passed for tables. A dead istik lay carelessly splayed across another table, clearly abandoned mid-surgery. The body cavity was still open, organs on full display.

Above her, from an elevated platform, came screams for help—high-pitched and layered, like multiple voices fused into one. Bloodchilling. Whatever the source, it was already too late for them.

Lae’zel ignored the cries, barrelling rapidly past the platform and towards the exit, but a new sound made her freeze with one foot suspended in the pulpy, gaping maw that served as a doorway. Someone was coming from behind. She heard footsteps. A ghaik? Or one of their captives?

Either way, she would take no chances. She would not allow herself to be captured. Not again. 

She scrambled quickly up a spiked platform that jutted from the floor. When she reached the top, she crouched low, silent and still, waiting to see what manner of fresh hell was coming after her.

From the nursery entered the istik she'd noticed earlier. She must be a hybrid, Lae'zel decided. One of those halfbreeds, neither fully human nor fully elf. Her long yellow hair was tied back at the top of her head, revealing her slightly pointed ears.

The large scar across her face and the slightly smaller scar on her neck hinted at some level of combat experience, but she was unarmored, dressed instead in black robes with metallic gold accents. A spellcaster? 

The set of daggers she carried pointed towards a different conclusion. One of the pair was plain; the other was more ornate—a bright cool-toned green, with a long and serrated edge that looked designed for torture. A rogue? Or someone with multiple skill sets? 

Lae’zel watched the istik as she approached the cartilaginous table that held the weight of the ghaik’s surgical victim. She stared into the body’s open cavity with an expression that showed far more fascination than horror. Could she be enthralled already?

The voice from the elevated platform called out again. Lae’zel saw the source clearly now from her own high-set vantage point—another ghaik victim, the top of their head removed, their brain matter itself releasing the tortured wails. An intellect devourer. Disgusting.

The istik heard it too, glancing at the elevated platform, still with outright fascination and entirely without fear. If she was not enthralled, then she was insane.

Lae’zel braced herself for a fight. She planned to attack as soon as the istik was near.

But the istik set off to explore the elevated platform, pulling at the lever that lowered it and climbing aboard, recklessly lifting herself closer to dangers any rational being should've known to avoid. 

As she approached the screaming brain, it called to her directly to free it.

The istik looked at the brain with interest, her head tilted slightly to the right, one side of her lips curving upwards. “With whom am I speaking? A man or a brain?”

“A newborn,” the intellect devourer replied. “Born new from this husk.”

The istik’s smile grew. Lae’zel frowned. What manner of degenerate had they locked her up with?

“You sound afraid,” the istik cooed in delight. “Why?”

“The enemy.” Even from a distance, Lae’zel could see the pitiful thing quivering in its shell. “So many enemies.”

“Oh? And what enemies would that be, little brain?”

The intellect devourer paused. 

“Do you not hear the call?” it asked the istik in confusion. “We are needed at the helm. At the helm, we are needed! A fight is starting! They are starting a fight! Fiends! Fire-born! Our help is needed! We are needed—”

“To help, yes,” she interrupted, moving closer to the thing and sticking her bare hands inside the skull, wrapping them around the brain without any visible sign of disgust. She truly was mad. Lae’zel was disgusted just watching her. “You might be beyond saving, little brain, but let's see what happens.”

She rummaged inside the skull, a determined grin never leaving her face. Finally, she gave a pull, ripping the intellect devourer out of its prison with a sickening squish and cradling it in her hands like an oversensitive githyanki youth might cradle a kaoulgrim pup.

“We are free!” the thing cried out. “Our freedom is ours! Friend!”

But the istik no longer looked friendly. She was still smiling, but it was a predatory smile—sharp and savoring. She jammed her thumb into the intellect devourer’s meat, brain juices spouting where she’d hit it. 

The creature screeched and jumped out of her hands. Claws emerged from its pulsing meat mid flight, and it skittered away down the platform as soon as it hit solid ground. The istik watched it run, still smiling, clearly relishing each panicked step. 

Why free the creature just to cripple it immediately afterwards? There was no sense to it. Something was seriously wrong with her.

The istik gave a shrug and began the descent back to the ground floor. Lae’zel watched her course, readying herself to attack. 

She made her move just as the istik passed her hiding spot—leaping through the air in a graceful arc and landing on her feet in a fighting stance, sword drawn. 

“Abomination!” she declared. “This is your end!”

Reality warped at the edges as something deeply, unnaturally wrong unfolded between them.

Lae’zel’s head pounded; her skin tingled. She saw flashes of memories, murky and distorted—a dark stone structure, somewhere deep underground; a circle of blood and guts, cloaked figures chanting ominously around it; and, finally, her own face seen through the istik’s eyes.

“My head!” she exclaimed, bending over despite herself, unable to keep her sword raised. “What is this?”

Lae’zel didn't see it happen—she was in too much pain. One moment the istik was staring at her with wide, curious eyes, and the next, she’d pounced, knocking her violently to the floor. 

Lae’zel gasped. The istik was sitting on top of her, her jagged dagger pressed against her throat. 

The cut wasn't deep—she’d barely drawn blood. But Lae’zel felt a creeping sensation spreading rapidly throughout her body, locking every joint in place. She tried to lift her sword arm, to strike back at the halfbreed. But she couldn't move it. Couldn't even feel it anymore.

“Who are you?” the istik demanded.

Lae'zel couldn't open her jaw far enough to respond.

“Answer me or I’ll gut you,” the istik growled. 

There was only one recourse. Fighting her repulsion with every ounce of her being, Lae’zel called upon the ghaik tadpole in her brain and reached out for the istik’s. The istik recoiled, her dagger falling out of her hand and tumbling over the side of Lae’zel’s body. 

<I can't answer you,> Lae’zel spat into her mind. <I'm paralyzed.>

The istik recovered, leaned over and reached for her blade, then pulled up again with it in hand. She held it over Lae’zel’s throat, slightly farther this time.

“Well, now. That's immensely useful, isn't it?” she purred.

If she could move her facial muscles, Lae'zel would've scowled.

“I can cure you,” the istik said. “But I don't waste healing spells on my enemies. Those are only for my friends.” She leaned closer until their faces were nearly touching, her dagger still held between their throats. “Which would you like to be? Blink once for enemies, blink twice for friends. Keep in mind, I’ll hold you to it.”

Lae’zel blinked twice. 

“Smart choice,” the istik said. “But I’ll expect you to prove it. Now, let's try again. Who are you? Use the tadpole to respond, please.”

To insist she stoop to that level again! But she had no other choice. She'd barely managed to push past her repulsion the first time, but the second time was slightly easier. 

<Lae’zel. Of Crèche K'liir.>

“Very good,” the istik cooed. “We're off to a splendid start. Next question. To the best of your knowledge, where are we?”

What a stupid question. There were too many possible ways to interpret it. Did she wish to know which circle of the Hells they were in, or simply that they were on a ghaik ship?

<Avernus,> she finally told her. <My kin tracked this ship here.>

“Do you know the purpose of these tadpoles in our heads?”

Another stupid question, but at least there was no need to consider the answer.

<To turn us into ghaik. Your kind knows them as mind flayers.>

“Do you know how to remove them?”

Finally an intelligent question.

<A zaith'isk. There's one in every githyanki crèche.>

“Thank you,” the istik said. “Now… about that cure…” She grinned. “I lied. I don’t have one. But I really do appreciate your cooperation. That's why I'm going to let you live. Good luck!” 

The istik was off and running, taking her poisoned dagger with her, and Lae’zel could do absolutely nothing but lie helpless on the ground and hope the paralysis wore off before someone else found her.

Fortunately, it passed within a minute. She could feel her rigid joints loosening, and she regained control of her limbs. Scowling, she rose to her feet and snatched her sword from the ground.

That halfbreed was immensely irritating. But she had also bested her. Lae'zel respected that, if only grudgingly. If she was to make it out of here alive, she needed allies strong enough to keep up with her.  

She followed her.

Chapter Text

When she woke up, trapped in a mind flayer pod with hardly the slightest room to move, Shadowheart panicked. 

The artefact was nearby. Even without seeing it, she knew it was there. From the instant her fingers had first brushed its surface, it had tethered itself to her, and now it hung perpetually at the edges of her awareness. She had to get it back.

Five clerics of Shar had been sent on the mission to retrieve that githyanki artefact. Only one had survived.

She pounded the barrier again, refusing to let hopelessness take her. She would not allow their sacrifice to be in vain.

Her fists slammed into the window in a relentless rhythm—frantic, furious.... and entirely futile. It hadn't budged. Not even an inch.  

Bowing her head, she began to whisper softly. Another prayer sent to her silent mistress. Another cry for help.

She’d just run through the words of the full recitation when the mouth-like orifice that served as a door gaped open and someone stepped through, solid and real, as if in answer.

“You!” Shadowheart yelled. “Get me out of here! Please!”

The newcomer approached her pod. She was a high half-elf, Shadowheart noted with relief. Like her. 

Their shared ancestry was where the resemblance ended, however. Her tied-back golden blonde hair stood in stark contrast to Shadowheart’s own ink black updo, and there were two large, jagged scars—one straight across her face and another on her neck—marring her otherwise typical ageless elven appearance. 

She tilted her head to the side as she scrutinized Shadowheart’s predicament. “I don’t see any way to open it,” she said, sounding intrigued but entirely unworried.

“No!” Shadowheart cried, afraid that her only lifeline would slip away from her. “There has to be some way!”

She tried desperately to think of something—anything—that could help. Suddenly, it dawned on her, like another answered prayer.

“That contraption near the pod!” She pointed towards the odd tentacled device. “Try that! They did something to it when they locked me in!”

“Okay,” the blonde half-elf agreed, with an incongruous smile that made Shadowheart nervous. As she walked out of her field of vision, Shadowheart resumed her prayers.

Two recitations later, the pod popped open. 

In her rush to get out, Shadowheart collapsed in a heap on the floor. The blonde half-elf stood over her, watching her with interest, but not offering to help her up. 

Shadowheart stood. It was an immense relief to stretch her muscles properly.

“I thought that damn thing was going to be my coffin,” she said. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” the blonde half-elf replied, smiling again. 

A sharp motion from behind the blonde drew Shadowheart’s attention. Someone new barreled aggressively into the room—a gith, clad in half-plate, with a longsword in hand. Shadowheart drew her mace and stepped fluidly into a fighting stance. 

The other half-elf turned toward the gith. “Lae’zel!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “Glad to see you've finally caught up with us, my friend.”

“This is your friend?” Shadowheart asked doubtfully, her hand still tensed around her mace. The glower the gith was aiming at the blonde did not strike her as particularly friendly. 

“Of course!” she insisted. “She told me so herself. Isn't that right, Lae’zel?”

Shadowhearted watched the gith’s pale green face settle into sullen resignation. “We’re acquainted,” she admitted. 

“You keep dangerous company,” Shadowheart said, her wariness unabated. 

“Don’t let our shared ancestry fool you, kin,” the other half-elf said. “It’s Lae’zel here who keeps dangerous company.” She smiled again, cocking her head playfully to the right. “But that’s what you want by your side in a fight, isn’t it?”

“Fair point,” Shadowheart conceded. “Looks like there’s plenty of fighting ahead.” She stowed her mace. She’d crushed a lot of githyanki bones to retrieve the artefact—she knew that gith were battle-hardy. And there was strength in numbers. “Let me come with you. We can get off this ship, and watch each other’s backs along the way.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” the blonde half-elf said, with a nod that sent her tied-back hair swaying behind her. “Does that work for you, Lae’zel?” 

“I don’t have time for stragglers,” Lae’zel said, with a rather bitter frown. “But I’ll take allies in combat.”

“Excellent!” the blonde half-elf declared. “My name is The Dark Urge.”

That was… not the kind of name Shadowheart had been expecting. “I’m Shadowheart.”

The Dark Urge squinted slightly, still smiling. “That’s kind of a weird name.”

Shadowheart raised her eyebrows. “You think my name is weird?” 

“Chk,” Lae’zel exclaimed. “Such idle talk endangers us all. We need to keep moving.” 

“Yes,” Shadowheart agreed, shooting another look at The Dark Urge with budding wariness. “Just a moment.”

She knew exactly where the artefact was—she could feel its presence like a phantom limb, detached yet undeniably hers—but there was simply no way to retrieve it without the other two seeing. The best she could do was to try to act casual. She approached the slick, membranous storage cavity beside the pod and quickly pulled the twenty-sided black box from inside it, stuffing it into her pack.

“What’s that?” The Dark Urge asked curiously. 

She was too damn inquisitive for her own good. 

“It’s nothing,” Shadowheart said, her clipped words laced with an unspoken threat. “Trust me.”

“Enough of this chatter,” Lae’zel barked. “We need to get to the helm—now.”

“She’s right,” Shadowheart said, keen to take advantage of the distraction. She waved her hand in the direction of her new allies. They both seemed the take-charge types; yielding them command of the mission might distract them from the artefact. “Lead on.” 

—

“We’re nearing the helm,” Lae’zel said, as they approached the final mouthlike doorway that stood between them and potential freedom. “Once inside, do as I say.”

“I’ll trust my own judgement, thanks,” Shadowheart retorted. She'd intended to let her new companions lead, but it was hard not to be irritated by Lae’zel’s constant presumptuousness.

She could see the angry gith preparing her own retort, but The Dark Urge interrupted. “What happened to needing to hurry?” she asked Lae’zel. 

Lae’zel shifted her eyes away from Shadowheart dismissively. “That’s right. We’ve no time for this insolence. Let’s go.” 

When they entered, the fight was already in full swing. 

It was like watching two realms collide. Throughout the room, intellect devourers grappled with imps and hellsboars, while in the center, a mind flayer focused its attention on two muscular cambions wielding giant flaming swords.  

Shadowheart watched in horror as one of the cambions swung at the mind flayer, which dodged, narrowly avoiding the attack. It launched itself back at the cambion, wrapping its many tentacles around his head and sinking its teeth directly through his skull, devouring his brain in one fluid motion. 

Then it turned its attention to them. She heard its voice in her head. 

<Thrall. Connect the nerves of the transponder. We must escape. Now.>

The transponder? She noted another odd contraption at the front of the ship, much like the one that The Dark Urge had used to free her from her pod. 

“Do it,” Lae’zel commanded. “We will deal with the ghaik after we escape.”

Lae'zel didn’t give them a chance to argue. She launched herself directly into the fray, slamming an imp out of her way and slashing her sword at the hellsboar behind it.

Shadowheart swung her mace, ending the hellsboar’s life before it had a chance to strike back at Lae’zel. The gith charged forward, making a break for the transponder. Shadowheart followed. 

Another imp pounced on her, piercing her flesh with the stinger on its tail. She’d lost sight of The Dark Urge earlier, but now she saw her emerge suddenly from the darkness in a blur of black and gold, skewering the imp with one of her daggers. 

Shadowheart turned back to the transponder. Lae’zel had almost reached it, but a new swarm of enemies overwhelmed her. Shadowheart watched a hellsboar knock her over and cast a healing spell in her direction, hoping it’d be enough to help her survive. She couldn’t slow down to check. She was almost at the helm.

When she reached it, she found an alien mechanism staring back at her, similar to the one from before, except that each tentacle ended with a bulb composed of two curved, flexible panels joined at the hinge—like a cross between an octopus and a venus flytrap. What to do? She had no idea how such a device worked. 

Suddenly, she found the knowledge flowing unexpectedly into her mind. The illithid, still locked in combat with the cambion behind her, was using its psionic dominance to show her what she had to do—join two specific bulbs to shift them back to their proper plane of existence.

She leapt, and not a moment too soon. The head of a red dragon burst through the hull of the ship, spewing a cone of fire that she barely avoided as she triggered the transponder. The ship tilted, lurching violently as it gained speed. 

Shadowheart tried to hang on to the tentacle in her hand, but the angle had grown far too steep. She let go, sliding backwards across the rough, textured floor of the Nautiloid to crash into the wall on the other side. The impact knocked her breath out of her lungs.

Then gravity reversed itself, and she was propelled once more across the room, flying towards the hole the red dragon had made in the hull. She reached out desperately, just managing to grab onto the transponder, and found herself dangling above an endless expanse of empty, swirling air. 

Don’t look down. She repeated this mantra to herself like a makeshift prayer. 

Gritting her teeth, she looked up instead, trying to climb her way back to safety, and she’d nearly made it when the ship reversed direction again, and she was sent flying into the opposite side. She crashed into another wall, just inches from a hole in the hull, and found a mind flayer right beside her, its pale, angry eyes boring into hers.

Then, as if the situation wasn't dire enough, a lightning bolt struck the ship, knocking loose pieces of the hull, scattering them around the helm. One flew at her, knocking her towards the mind flayer, which lurched away and left her tumbling through the hole. 

In the end, there was nothing but the sensation of falling and the awareness of her imminent death. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the nagging thought that she should be praying for the painless embrace of the darkness. But her prayers had all run out. 

—

A warm breath on her face woke her. She jolted upright, nearly colliding with someone—close, too close. The figure drew back quickly as she pushed herself to her feet.

It was the blonde woman from the mind flayer ship, staring at her in wide-eyed concern. The morning sun caught in her hair and gave it a gentle, golden glow—the very picture of benevolent innocence. But Shadowheart could swear she’d just felt her trying to pry into her bag.

“What’re you doing?” she demanded, clutching her bag tightly to her side, grateful that she could still sense the artefact’s presence within. 

“Just checking whether you’re alive,” The Dark Urge answered, palms up in a gesture of peace. 

“I’m alive,” Shadowheart said, still suspicious. “Thanks for the concern.”

Shadowheart took in the sights—a sunny beach, scorched and littered with flaming wreckage. The ship. The crash. A shiver crawled up her spine. She’d truly believed the fall would kill her. 

“How am I alive?” she asked The Dark Urge. “How are you alive?”

The Dark Urge shrugged. “I was about a foot away from splattering into the ground, but something slowed me down. It needn’t have been anything unusual, really. Feather Fall would get the job done, and it’s a basic spell.” 

“But who cast it?” Shadowheart wondered aloud. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t encountered anyone else yet—alive, anyway. But I just woke up.”

“We need to get moving,” Shadowheart said. “We need supplies, shelter, and most of all, a healer. We might have escaped, but we still have these little monsters in our head.” 

“You intend to stick together, then?” She cocked her head curiously.

Shadowheart hesitated. She wasn’t sure how far she could trust this cheerful woman—always smiling, always so quick to laugh. It was the always that worried her. The consistency of it. Real warmth wavers. 

But she wasn’t necessarily better off alone, and it didn’t have to be a permanent arrangement. “We both understand what’s at stake here,” she said. “And we have a mutual goal. What better basis is there for an alliance?” 

“True enough,” The Dark Urge agreed, smiling. “All right. Let’s explore the area.” 

Chapter Text

When he woke up, lying in a sun-drenched meadow with the soft light of morning gently warming his face, Astarion screamed in horror.

A few moments later, he realized that he was not in fact burning to a crisp. 

He sat up and tried to get his bearings. The forest was silent except for the occasional chirping of birdsong, and still except for the autumn leaves that cascaded from the trees when pushed by the breeze. The sight probably would have struck him as wondrous, were he not so terrified.

In transfixed stillness, he watched the sun shine on the deathly pale skin of the backs of his hands. How was this possible? He hadn't the slightest idea. But he couldn't afford to waste such an opportunity. 

He rose to his feet, ready to act… and then stood there idly. He hadn’t any clue what his next move should be. The wreckage of the crashed ship must be somewhere nearby, but there was no sign of it from where he was.

Then his hearing—sharpened by centuries of prowling busy streets for potential victims—picked up a sound coming from down a little dirt trail. Footsteps, and two voices that he recognized. He’d heard them before. On the mind flayer ship. He stepped quickly over to the trail and planned his performance. 

They noticed him as soon as they rounded the corner. He’d been right—it was the same duo of high half-elves, though the gith was no longer with them.

“Help!” he yelled. “Please! I’ve got one of those brain things cornered!” 

The blonde approached him immediately. The dark-haired one lagged behind. 

“There!” he said, pointing at a random spot in the grass. “You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others!”

Her eyes narrowed. “Kill it yourself,” she said. “You look capable.”

He sighed, squeezing the hilt of the dagger he held behind his back. “I was so hoping for a kind soul. Well, not to worry.”

He lunged. She tried to dodge, but he was faster—he knocked her to the ground and had her arms pinned at her sides before she could pull out the fancy-looking green dagger at her belt. His own dagger hovered just slightly above her neck. 

“Not a sound,” he said. “Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.” 

He glanced at the other half-elf, who was glaring at him but had not come to her companion’s defense.

“And you—keep your distance. No need for things to get messy.”

“I need her alive,” she snapped. “Stow that blade or I’ll show you how messy things can get.”

“Promises, promises,” Astarion said, smiling at her. He could tell she didn’t value her companion enough to risk her own life. “But I have other business, I’m afraid.”

He turned his attention back to the blonde, pressing his dagger to her throat until it drew the tiniest trickle of blood. Her blood was potent. That was obvious to him from just a whiff of it. How tantalizing. But he had more important considerations first.

“Now. I saw you on that ship, didn’t I?” 

“Obviously,” the blonde said, her tone clipped and bored. “How else would you know I’ve fought intellect devourers before?”

So that’s how she’d guessed he was lying. Duly noted.

"Yes, that’s right. I saw you strutting about while I was trapped in that pod. You’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.”

“This is a waste of time,” she huffed, squeezing her eyes shut as if in concentration.

A sharp pain pierced his forehead, and suddenly he saw the world through her eyes. Felt the world through her skin. He was back on the mind flayer ship, waking up inside one of their conversion pods in absolute fear and confusion. 

Before he could make sense of what was happening, she wrenched herself just free enough to seize his wrist. She uttered an incantation, and a numbing chill crept up his arm, deadening his senses and loosening his grasp enough to allow her to slip out. He rolled backwards and sprang to his feet—only to find her already upright, both daggers drawn, eyes sharp as she leveled the blades at him.

A spellcaster. Perhaps he’d not been quite as in control of the situation as he’d thought he was. Luckily, he had his own secrets too. She’d tried to use necromancy on an undead. Probably not as effective as she’d imagined. But what had she done to him before that? 

“What were those visions?” he demanded, brandishing his own dagger at her.  

“My memories,” she said, with a little head tilt that changed the trajectory of the blood trickling lightly down her neck. “I connected our tadpoles. Neat, isn’t it?” 

Her memories? Then… 

“You’re not one of them,” he said, so relieved by the revelation that he immediately lowered his weapon. “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

“Can’t blame you,” she admitted, lowering her blades as well and flashing him a grin. “I was looking forward to seeing yours.”

“Ah.” He smiled in return. “A kindred spirit.”

“Are you two done playing games?” the other half-elf asked. Her arms were crossed in impatience, but her tone betrayed her amusement. 

He laughed. “For now at least. My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

“I’m The Dark Urge,” the blonde half-elf said. She gestured toward the dark-haired one. “This is Shadowheart.”

“Interesting names,” he noted. “Are you related?”

“No,” they said in unison. They both turned their heads towards each other in surprise. 

“Right,” he said. “Of course not. Why would I even ask?” He decided to change the topic. “So, did you learn anything useful about these worms while wandering around the ship?”

“I know they’ll turn us into mind flayers if we can’t get rid of them in time,” The Dark Urge said.

He laughed—a sharp, bitter laugh. And to think he’d thought he might actually be free.

“Of course they’ll turn me into a monster,” he said. “What else would I expect?”

“Might not be hopeless. I’ve been told that they can be removed by something called a zaith'isk, which apparently resides in every githyanki crèche.”

Shadowheart frowned. “You didn’t tell me that.”

She shrugged. “Didn’t come up.”

“And who knows if it’s even true? Still. It’s the only lead we’ve got. Perhaps we’d better look for your gith friend after all.” Shadowheart wrinkled her nose in distaste. 

If there was a way—any way at all—that he could preserve his newfound freedom without turning into a different kind of monster, Astarion had to try.

“You know,” he chimed in, “I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea. And anyone who can crash a mind flayer ship and walk away seems like a good person to know.”

“You want to come with us, then?” The Dark Urge asked. 

He decided to pretend that was an actual offer. “All right,” he said, grinning. “I accept.”

—

Astarion inhaled deeply through his nose, feeling the burn in his lungs. It’d been a long time since he’d hiked this sort of distance. He was used to short bursts of intense exertion—from stalking through the streets for potential targets, and from what he had to do to get and keep their attention once he found them—but he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d walked for so long. 

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t so boring. 

At first, the daytime world had fascinated him—the sunlight, especially. The way it filtered through the leaves, turning their colors to brighter hues where it hit them. The play of light on water, making even the smallest puddles glitter like scattered jewels. How it made the air itself shimmer, painting dust motes gold as they drifted through its rays.

But there’s only so long one can spend staring at inanimate objects before starting to feel like a total maniac.

“What sort of name is The Dark Urge, anyway?” he asked the friendlier of the two half-elves.

She shrugged, slowing her pace slightly to fall into tempo with him. “It’s just my name.”  

“The name your parents gave you?” he pressed. 

“Presumably,” she said, smiling slightly. 

“Hmm. It is rather a mouthful though, isn’t it?”

“Maybe we should call her something else,” Shadowheart suggested, from her position at the front of their queue. “Some sort of shorthand. How about Durge?” 

She’d obviously meant it as an insult, but The Dark Urge laughed. “I like it,” she said. “Durge. Like a funeral song.”

This name thing was clearly some weird competition between the two of them, and Astarion did not particularly want to be a part of it.

“Well,” he said. “At least it’s shorter.” 

“Durge it is then,” Shadowheart said with finality. 

“Nice,” Durge said, grinning. “And what should we call you? Shart?”

“Not if you’d like to keep your tongue in your mouth.”

Durge laughed loudly, and after a moment, Shadowheart joined in. It all felt so unreal—just bantering with strangers, without planning how best to lead them to their deaths. It would take him some time to get accustomed to it. 

“Hey,” Durge said, squinting and pointing toward the distance. “What’s that?” 

He followed the trajectory of her finger. On a distant outcropping of rocks, some sort of swirling purple vortex was casting glittering sparks into the air. 

“Perhaps we shouldn’t—” he started, but Durge was already making a run for it. 

He looked at Shadowheart questioningly. 

“She does that,” Shadowheart sighed. “We’ll either get used to it, or it’ll kill her and she won't be our problem anymore.”

By the time they caught up to her, she was already staring into the portal.

“Don’t touch that!” Astarion warned her. “We’ve no idea what it is!”

As if on cue, a hand popped out of the vortex, waving around frantically. A voice emerged. “A hand? Anyone?”

“Don’t!” Astarion said. “Could be a trap.”

“Or it could be someone who needs help,” Shadowheart pointed out. 

Durge was gazing glassy-eyed into the vortex like a sleepwalker teetering on a ledge, one step from vanishing. The vortex began to contract. 

“Agh!” the voice within screamed as the portal tightened around the hand. “By Mystra’s eyelids, stop! Cease, you loon!” 

Then, before Astarion could even blink, the portal closed, and the hand was lying severed in a puddle of extremely potent-smelling blood on the ground. 

“Well,” he said flatly. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

So much for not leading anyone to their death.

“Why would you do that?” Shadowheart demanded.

“I was just… fantasizing.” She looked dazed, but buzzing beneath the surface. A current of barely contained energy—like something half-loosed from its leash.  

“That looked pretty real to me!” Shadowheart said. 

“I know,” Durge answered. A faint smile flickered on her face—wry, and a touch self-conscious. “I was just picturing how it would look if that portal tightened and… my magic got away from me.” 

Shadowheart crossed her arms, fixing Durge with an assessing gaze. “You’re a sorcerer, right?”

“Yes.”

“Wild magic?” 

“I’m… not certain.”

“How can you not be—” Shadowheart began, then seemed to think better of it. “Well, have you ever surged before? Lost control of your magic?”

“Not that I can recall, but…” She grunted softly. “I can't recall much of my life from before the tadpole.”

“The tadpole gave you amnesia?”

Durge nodded. “The same didn't happen to you, then, I assume?”

“No,” Shadowheart said firmly. “The tadpole didn't take my memories.”

“I see,” Durge replied. She hesitated, her brow furrowed slightly—then her eyes glinted with icy resolve. “Well, whatever that was, wild magic surge or otherwise, I'll master it.”

“And if you can’t get it under control?”

“I can.” Her voice was cold and insistent. Unyielding.

Shadowheart watched her closely for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” Her hand snapped to the strap of her bag. “Then let's keep moving.”

As they turned away from the mess and back towards the trail, Astarion couldn't shake the feeling that Shadowheart was missing something. He placed his hand on Durge’s shoulder.

“Durge,” he said. “A moment.”

They both looked at Shadowheart, who rolled her eyes. “I’ll just give you two some privacy, then.”

Once he saw that Shadowheart was out of hearing range, he turned back to Durge. “Is there something more to what happened? Something you don’t want Shadowheart to know?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he decided to try turning up the charm. He smiled at her mischievously. “Come now. I saw the way you looked after you severed that hand. Like you were finally alive. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?” 

Her eyes widened, and a smile crept onto her face. “Yes,” she admitted quietly.

He kept his own smile in place, even as the nerves edged in. “I knew it. And it wasn’t a wild magic surge either, was it?”

“No,” she said, quietly but with a completely level voice. “There’s something else. Some impulse in my mind, urging me towards darker deeds.”

How quickly he’d gotten her to admit it. He was good at this. Always had been. Cazador had reaped the rewards of that effort for centuries. A part of him instinctively recoiled from the idea of using the same tactics now that he was free, but it was clear to him he’d be far safer with Durge as his friend than his enemy. 

“The norm is to keep those kinds of thoughts to ourselves, darling,” he said, thinking she’d appreciate his making light of the situation. “But your way is fun too.”

“I really didn’t do it on purpose,” she insisted, subtle frustration lining her voice. Then she laughed softly and shook her head as though to clear it. “Not that I wouldn’t, of course, given the proper circumstances. I do know that about myself. I don't suffer from that particular brand of delusion.”

“I know,” he assured her. It was a calculated response, but also a true one. He could see it in her.

“But that didn’t make sense! I’ve no idea who that even was, and…” Her face darkened again. “I don’t like not being in control.”

“I understand.” He didn’t have to dig hard to find empathy to slip into his tone. 

She cocked her head at him questioningly. 

He sighed, almost unconsciously. “Look,” he said. “It seems to me like you’ve been dealt a vile hand…” He felt a familiar emotion rising within him—anger, born of injustice. “I say: play it.” Born of injustice, yes, but since grown into something harder. “Play it for all it’s worth.”

Chapter Text

“Do you think it's dangerous?”

Lae’zel stood rigid in her cage, silently watching her horned captors and fuming with barely contained rage.

“Of course it's dangerous. One of them carved up Zorru’s whole squad.”

Would that I could carve you up, she thought bitterly. 

“So let’s leave it.”

But it was a pointless thought. Her fury was making her imagination run wild. 

“And let the goblins have it? No. We take it to the Grove.”

Truly, the person she was most angry with was herself. 

“That thing’s far too dangerous to bring back home! Leave it for the goblins to kill.”

First the ghaik, then that audacious halfbreed on the Nautiloid. Now this.

“And if it escapes? Or strikes a deal with them?”

Three times today she'd allowed herself to be rendered helpless. That was three times too many. She'd die before she’d allow a fourth. 

“A deal? Do you think goblins are the dealmaking sort? Not a chance. If they find it, they’ll kill it.”

But first she had to find a way out of this cage.

“You don't know that! What if they set it free and it finds us again?”

The idle chatter of her captors faded suddenly into the background of her awareness. She'd just spotted someone hiding in the bushes at the edge of the clearing. A slight movement had first drawn her eyes to the bush, but now its branches parted and a face emerged. Was that…? Her eyes narrowed. The halfbreed she'd met on the Nautiloid! The Dark Urge. 

She joined their tadpoles immediately. Now that The Dark Urge had forced her to do it so many times before, it came naturally. Her instinctive disgust at the act was all but entirely overcome. 

<Get rid of them,> she commanded her. 

The Dark Urge heard her. She knew because she could see her smile. <Awfully demanding for a woman in your position. But then, of course, we are friends.>

If they were having this conversation aloud, she might've growled. <Stop wasting time! Deal with them. Now.>

<Keep calm, Lae’zel. I'm happy to help out a friend. But I'll expect my friend to help me in turn. You told me before of a cure for this tadpole—>

<Fine,> Lae’zel said. She was far too pointlessly wordy not to warrant interrupting. <I'll help you locate a zaith'isk. Now deal with them.>

<That's what I like to hear!> The Dark Urge declared with smug satisfaction. She shifted her eyes to the horned creatures, and her gaze sharpened. <You don't care whether they live or die, do you?>

<Not in the slightest.>

Her grin grew. <Excellent. Perhaps we really can be friends. I've been itching for a conscious kill all morning.>

Her face vanished and the branches rustled back into place behind her. A conscious kill? What in Vlaakith's name was she talking about?

Lae’zel didn't wonder for long. A cloud of smoke filled the clearing, obscuring her sight and distracting her mind. She heard a female scream, closely followed by a male one.

When the smoke cleared, The Dark Urge was leaning over two dead bodies, one dagger held aloft in each hand and a wide grin on her face. “Two to one, little buddy,” she said aloud. “Your move.”

Lae’zel nearly bristled at being referred to as “little buddy,” but the faraway look in The Dark Urge’s eyes told her that she must be speaking to someone else. She almost asked who, but it didn't truly matter. The ramblings of the insane were best handled with brevity.

“Enough nonsense,” Lae’zel called to her. “Get me down.”

“Right.” Her eyes refocused suddenly. She was still smiling, but it had taken on a slightly embarrassed quality. She straightened, placing her daggers back in her belt and pulling her crossbow from her back. “Brace yourself. Or don't.”

Before Lae’zel could suggest a better method, The Dark Urge had shot a bolt at the rope that held up the flimsy cage and the whole structure came crashing down, bringing Lae’zel with it.

She hit the floor and rolled onto her feet immediately, brushing splintered bits of wood from her shoulders and eyeing The Dark Urge cautiously. She'd already shown far too much weakness in front of her. She’d have to be extremely careful from now on.

“I see the tadpole hasn't yet scrambled all your senses,” she said. “Auspicious. But the longer we wait, the more it consumes. We must find a crèche immediately.”

“No arguments here,” The Dark Urge said. “Let's go rejoin the others.”

The Dark Urge led her up a forest trail where the other halfbreed from the Nautiloid—Shadowheart, she recalled—stood with a very pale man that Lae'zel would guess was a full-blooded elf. 

“You’ve retrieved her already,” Shadowheart said as she saw them approach. “You were just supposed to scout ahead to see if those tieflings were dangerous.”

“Not dangerous enough,” The Dark Urge replied, grinning again. Was she ever not grinning? She pointed at her companions. “That's Astarion, and of course, you know Shadowheart. Oh, and they call me Durge now. You're welcome to do so too, if you wish.”

The name sounded crude to her, but she was unfamiliar with the local naming customs. Nor did she care. “Come. The horned ones that captured me mentioned a camp. One there—a Zorru—has seen githyanki. A crèche must be near. We will ask this Zorru where he has seen my kin.” 

—

They located the camp a few hours later. A large wooden gate built directly into a mossy hillside protected it, denying them easy entry. 

“It appears secure,” Lae’zel said, as the group stopped a short distance from the gate. “We must either talk or fight our way in.”

“Both sound fun!” Durge commented cheerfully. 

“Well, it probably won’t be necessary to do both,” Astarion drawled. “So which is better?”

Before Lae’zel could even begin considering the superior strategy, a group of humans ran across the plains and towards the gate. She drew her sword immediately and motioned to the others to stand down for now. She had to get a read on the situation before she decided how they should act. 

The group of humans reached the gate, and one of them shook his fist frantically at the horned creature that stood at the top—a tiefling, Shadowheart had said they were called. “Open the bloody gate!” he yelled. 

“Nobody gets in,” the tiefling yelled back from above. “Zevlor’s orders.”

“That pack of goblins will be on us any second!”

Goblins? Lae’zel tensed.

<Prepare for a fight,> she told the others—a silent order issued directly into their minds.

Another tiefling, with the largest sets of curved horns she’d seen thus far, appeared at the top of the gate. “What’s going on?” he asked. 

“Goblins are on our tail!” The human grew ever more frantic. “Open the gate, Zevlor. Now.”

“You led goblins here?” Zevlor yelled, horrified. “Where is the druid?”

“Please! There’s no time!”

He was right. At that moment, a vicious wolfish creature leapt growling into the clearing. A warbeast of some sort, Lae’zel thought, as she watched it release a loud howl.

“By the Nine Hells!” Zevlor exclaimed. “Open the gate!”

Fool. He should’ve done it earlier or not at all. Other tieflings rushed to fulfill his order, but it was too late. The goblins were upon them now. An archer loosed several arrows into one of the tieflings, forcing the gate to grind to a sudden halt only a few feet off the ground. 

The humans charged forward, trying to raise the gate the rest of the way with brute strength. Lae’zel could tell that wasn’t going to work. The gate slammed downwards, and the three of them just barely managed to step back in time to avoid having their hands crushed by the force.   

“Shit!” the leader of the humans yelled. “Form a line!”

The humans charged. The goblins charged. 

“Now!” Lae’zel yelled. 

Her soldiers charged too. 

She and Shadowheart did, anyway. Durge and Astarion were nowhere to be seen—she could only hope they'd both chosen the stealthy approach and were simply waiting for the right moment to strike. She had no need for such subtleties—a goblin fell to her sword as she ran directly into the heart of the battle.

The goblin beside it looked at her in shock, then its shock turned to anger as it raised its bow and pointed it at her.

She raised her sword in preparation to block. But no arrow came. The goblin was propelled backwards by a forceful blast of energy as a single word of magical incantation rang through the battlefield.

“Dolor!”

Lae’zel looked up, towards the spot where she estimated the blast had originated. Another human came gliding down the hill from the direction of the tiefling camp and engaged a third goblin in combat with his rapier. His footwork was graceful and nimble, almost more of a dance than a fight. Yet it was effective. 

The goblin fell swiftly. “Damnable roach!” the new human exclaimed as he dealt the killing blow. “Provoke the blade… and suffer its sting!”

After that, the battle was simple. The goblins had expected three enemies, not eight. Shadowheart stood by ready to cast healing spells, swatting away any enemies that approached her with her mace. Astarion’s arrows whizzed frequently through the air but he himself always vanished before anyone could return fire. Durge controlled the crowd with her poisoned blade and one very well-timed sleeping spell. With such support, Lae’zel and the group of humans were able to slaughter the rest of the attackers with ease. 

Finally, they stood victorious, with the corpses of their enemies scattered at their feet. The gate rose again, and the voice of the tiefling leader called out, “Get inside! Now!”

All four of the humans who had fought beside them rushed in. Lae’zel waited, regrouping with her team of elves of varying degrees of blood purity. 

“Well,” Shadowheart commented quietly. “I suppose we have a way in now.”

“Someone should still talk to the tieflings,” Astarion suggested. “Their leader, at least. To make sure they recognize how we've helped them.”

“I'll do it,” Durge volunteered immediately. “I'm almost as good at talking as I am at killing. I can make them trust us.”

Lae’zel nodded. “All right,” she said. “First, Durge will speak to the leader of these teethlings—”

“Tieflings,” Shadowheart corrected. She didn't actually roll her eyes, but Lae’zel could hear the same judgemental implication in her tone. “They're not teeth.”

“As I was saying,” Lae’zel continued forcefully. “After Durge ensures that we have the trust of the tieflings, we will find Zorru and force him to tell us the location of the githyanki crèche. By whatever means necessary.”

She looked at each of their faces in turn to see if any of them were too hesitant to do what needed to be done. Durge grinned enthusiastically, and Astarion smiled too, though his was smaller and rather blasé. Shadowheart was not smiling—her mouth was set in grim determination.

“Okay,” Lae’zel said, nodding authoritatively. “We go in.”

—

They located the tiefling leader just past the main gate. He was locked in a standoff with the leader of the humans. “There are children here, you fool!” Zevlor yelled. 

“We was running for our lives!” the human said, breathless and angry. 

“You led them straight to us, Aradin! And you let them take the druid too! Unbelievable!” 

“Druid?” Durge asked, casually interrupting the argument. “Those goblins didn’t take any prisoners.”

Aradin did not turn towards her. His eyes were fixed on Zevlor. “We lost him back at the ruins,” he said. “Whole place is crawling with goblins.”

“He trusted you!” Zevlor shouted.

“Nobody forced him to go with us,” Aradin said, mouth set in enraged resolution. “He insisted! And when things got tough, he couldn’t keep up. Simple as that.”

“My gods, you’re a coward!” 

The human’s hand twitched, balling suddenly into a fist. He was about to blow. But Durge stepped between him and the tiefling, holding up her hands.

“Stop and think,” she told them both calmly. Her head turned from one man to the other. “More violence won’t bring back those you’ve lost. If there’s a danger nearby, then you need to work together to overcome it.”

Lae’zel watched her closely. Her body language was so different from usual that it had transformed her into someone else entirely. She was not smiling—simply looking at the two men with serene composure, chin held high. 

She was a very good liar. Lae’zel made a mental note of that.

The tiefling deflated. “You’re right,” he said to Durge. “There’s too much at stake.”

“Worried about your precious hide, are you?” Aradin’s voice was taunting, but Lae’zel could tell that his anger too had been subdued. “The both of you.”

“Enough!” Zevlor declared. “Squabbling is pointless. What’s done is done. The goblins have found us.” 

“It’s likely not as hopeless as you think,” Durge said patiently. “We left no survivors, so the goblins can’t report back to their leaders. Your main concern should be this druid they’ve captured. Will he give up your location?”

“Halsin?” Zevlor asked, surprised. “I don’t think so. He’s tough. Even if they tortured him…” His voice trailed off. 

“They’ve got Liam, too,” Aradin admitted, eyes pointed downward. “If he’s alive.”

“Is there anyone in your group you wouldn’t be willing to leave behind?” Zevlor admonished him. 

“It’s not my fault!” the human exclaimed defensively. “He just charged them! He was reckless, and he got what he deserved. If we’re lucky, they killed him. So he won’t be able to talk.”

Zevlor’s jaw clenched, but Durge shot him a meaningful look. “It’s not worth it,” she said.  

The tiefling exhaled. Lae’zel was starting to wonder whether Durge wasn’t supplementing her words with some sort of magical charm. No one was naturally that convincing.

“It doesn’t matter if the goblins locate us or not,” Zevlor said. “We have to leave. The druids are forcing everyone out. This attack will only strengthen their resolve.” 

“I’m getting my group out anyway,” Aradin said. “This damn contract’s not worth the danger.”

He walked away without another word. Zevlor watched him go, then turned back to Durge. “I should thank you for your help with the goblins,” he told her. “And for ensuring that we didn’t come to blows just now.” 

She smiled, but it looked entirely different from her usual one—less gleeful, more gracious. “You’re welcome,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear you’re having so many difficulties.”

“Yes, well. It’s been that way since Elturel.” His glowing yellow eyes turned somber. “I’d hoped the people of Baldur’s Gate might be more open-minded, but now I’m not sure if we’ll even make it there.” 

“These druids you mentioned, you say they’re forcing everyone out because of the goblin attacks?”

“There’ve been several attacks by different monsters. The druids blame us ‘outsiders’ for drawing them here. They’ve started a ritual to cut the grove off from the world outside.” 

“Is it possible for me to speak with these druids? Perhaps I could convince them to change course.”

Lae’zel was growing impatient. Why bother with this irrelevant matter? She’d already gained his trust. Now she was just playing games.

“Perhaps…” Zevlor said thoughtfully. “She does owe you for saving this place. Maybe you could persuade her. For more time to prepare, if nothing else.”

“I’ll do my absolute best,” Durge said, voice dripping with compassion and modesty. 

“We'd owe you a great debt,” Zevlor said. “You'll find the druids at the heart of the grove. Please. Make them see sense. Before more lives are lost.”

“Of course,” she said, sounding completely genuine. “We wouldn't want any more death.”

Lae'zel didn't know how much more of this she could take. “We should go,” she said to the tiefling. “We must get started on this urgent task you've set before us.”

She grabbed Durge’s arm, steering her forcefully away from the tiefling leader. <What was that?> she asked her silently, through the tadpole. 

She heard Durge’s laugh in her mind, though her face remained completely composed. <An excuse to meet the ones who clearly have all the real power around here.>

Chapter Text

Shadowheart lingered at the edge of the grove, a mask of indifference fixed so firmly to her face she could almost have convinced herself. Secrecy was a Sharran’s armor, and to her, it was an instinct—a second skin that stitched itself across her own without invitation. It locked her body into stillness, pulling her inexorably into taut attention, sharpening every sense nearly to the point of pain. 

Before her lay the awkward sprawl of the tieflings’ living quarters—a tangled lattice of wooden platforms rising in uneven tiers, rough-spun cloth canopies strung between them. But it was the tieflings themselves that truly interested her.

Her memories might be gone, but the skills she’d built through decades of relentless training remained. If there was one thing Shadowheart remembered, it was how to read people.

Most of the tieflings were nervous, and all were certainly weary. But she saw a kind of strength in them, too—the desperate resilience born only of difficulty.

Near a makeshift market stand, a young tiefling boy hawked his wares, boasting loudly about the magical properties of the rings he had in stock. His claims were so exaggerated they were barely believable. Still, he likely did well enough for himself—if only because he preyed shamelessly on others' weaknesses. Shadowheart was fairly certain the tiefling girl she’d spotted hiding nearby was with him. Most likely, the sales pitch was mere misdirection, and the real profit came from theft.

Further off, a group of children practiced sword fighting. Some wielded child-sized wooden blades, but others had graduated to genuine steel. They sparred with weapons too large to fit in their hands—frightened and hesitant, but determined too. Likely grateful for even the slimmest chance of defending themselves.

Children in a world that didn't care that they were children, figuring out how to survive. She didn’t know whether the sight made her sad or hopeful.

A stray question crept into her mind. Was this what her past had looked like? She'd been a helpless child once, too. Before Lady Shar had taken her in and molded her into a vessel of her divine will. 

She shook her head. Pointless speculation. If the memories were necessary, she would still have them. The mission was all that mattered now.

And perhaps… once she returned the artefact to her cloister… Lady Shar might deem her worthy of having her memories returned to her… 

Lae’zel’s voice crashed into her head, abruptly ending that line of thought. The gith addressed the entire group, her words carried directly into each of their minds courtesy of their illithid stowaways. 

<We should look for this Zorru,> she insisted. 

Such casual use of the tadpoles! Didn't it bother her? Shadowheart found it unnerving every time. 

The phantom thread that linked their minds together was a constant, unwelcome presence. She knew damn well that the others could use it to spy on her, and she hated it. If secrecy was a Sharran’s armor, then these little parasites were a dagger wedged between the seams. They left her feeling dangerously exposed.

But the tadpoles were there, like it or not. Loathe as she was to admit it, making use of them was the logical course of action.

<We don't even know which one Zorru is,> Shadowheart pointed out, via the same psychic channel. <Are you planning to question everyone we meet?>

<I say we talk to the druids first,> Durge suggested. <If anyone can help us, it's the grove’s leadership. And I’ve found us an excuse that can lead us directly into their inner sanctum.>

<What you’ve found us is a distraction,> Lae’zel grumbled. <The protocol regarding ghaik infection is unambiguous: report immediately to the nearest crèche for decontamination.>

Lae’zel's single-mindedness was becoming worrisome. Gith had a well-earned reputation for ruthlessness. For all Shadowheart knew, this zaith’isk of theirs was more likely to kill them than to cure them. 

<The rest of us aren't gith, Lae'zel,> Shadowheart reminded her. <We’re not bound by your protocols.>

<The druid leaders should be able to help us find a specific refugee,> Durge asserted. <If I ran this place, I'd be keeping tabs on all of them.>

<That makes sense,> Shadowheart admitted. She didn't like it, but it was true. <The tieflings are outsiders here. The druids would be wise to know their identities in case someone tries to stir up trouble.>

<And they do owe us,> Astarion added. <For how graciously we saved their skins.>

<Exactly!> Durge exclaimed. 

Shadowheart sensed a subtle wave of satisfaction emanating from Durge’s mind, but her face remained remarkably neutral. 

As did everyone else’s, she realized. No matter how heated their mental argument had become, not one of them had shown any visible reaction. She was surrounded by fellow liars. 

Lae’zel was silent for a moment, though Shadowheart had the faintest impression that she was considering their best approach. 

<All right,> she said finally. <We find the druids first and make them bring our target to us.>

—

As they descended the cracked stone steps into the heart of the grove, the sound of a heated argument rose to meet them. At the entrance, the source became clear: a group of angry tieflings were huddled around the archway, facing off with three figures in earth-toned garb that Shadowheart assumed must be the druids. 

“Let my daughter go,” snarled a female tiefling with a pair of very sharp-looking black horns. “Right now.”

“She’s a thief, hellspawn,” the druid in the center retorted. “And you will wait for Kagha’s judgement. Now get back.” 

The tiefling bared her teeth. “Let me through, mragreshem, or I’ll rip your damned throat out!” 

She lashed out, but before her blow could connect, another druid released a bellowing roar and sent her stumbling back in fear. He transformed—ripping through his own skin to emerge in the shape of a ferocious brown bear. 

The bear loomed over the tieflings. It made no further noise, but the animalistic threat in its eyes was warning enough. They retreated.

As the crowd of grumbling tieflings thinned, Durge strode boldly toward the druids.

“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling at the druid in the center—clearly the one in charge. “Zevlor sent me to speak to the First Druid on behalf of the refugees.”

“Zevlor doesn’t get to make that call,” the druid replied. “Stay back if you value your life.”

“Were it not for our intervention,” Lae’zel snapped, “those goblins would have overrun your camp. We will go where we please.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” the druid insisted. “Now get back.”

Shadowheart studied her—there was a tension in her frame, a tightening, as though she were bracing for a blow. But her eyes held no heat, only weary resolve. 

<She doesn’t want to hurt us,> she told her allies through their mental link. <She doesn’t like having to threaten people like this.>

“I think the First Druid might be interested in what I have to say,” Durge said aloud. She leaned forward slightly, and her tone softened. “I can help you with your problem.”

The druid frowned. “And what problem would that be?” 

“The refugees,” Durge said. “I can help the First Druid clear them out—without any unnecessary violence.” 

The druid started—not in anger, but in surprise. She exchanged a glance with another druid by her side. After a moment, he nodded, and she turned back to Durge. 

“All right,” she said at last. “You may enter.”

The druids stepped aside, and Durge smiled again, inclining her head in farewell. She entered the clearing, Lae’zel and Astarion following without hesitation.

Shadowheart fell into place behind them, at a slight distance. As they turned into the inner sanctum, she heard Durge’s cheerful voice in her head. <Thanks for the tip.>

<You’re welcome,> Shadowheart replied. <You made effective use of it.>

That bit of teamwork had felt oddly familiar, almost as much as the manipulation itself. The strategic sharing of secrets, the careful corroboration of lies—had she done it before, with the other members of her coven? She must have. 

She almost wished she could remember their names. 

—

As they entered the First Druid’s chambers, the sound of yet another argument reached their ears. 

“Have you lost your senses, Kagha?” a loud voice yelled. “Release her!”

“She stole the Idol of Silvanus,” came the response, much quieter but twice as cold. “She must pay the price.”

Durge stopped at a distance, watching the scene from behind a stout stone pillar. The others followed her lead, clustering in the shadows. Shadowheart slipped into the back, where the darkness pooled deepest, and called upon Shar’s blessing to hide them. Best to remain unnoticed while they got a read on the situation.  

In the middle of the verdant chamber stood three figures. 

The first was a woman with a bitter scowl etched across her face. Her blonde hair was bound in a complex braid, and she wore bright green robes with brown sleeves that curled like autumn leaves. Beside her stood a man, glaring at her with open disgust, clad in light brown armor, an antlered hat perched upon his brow. Between them hovered a tiny tiefling with bronze horns that seemed too large for her head and a mortal fear in her glowing eyes.

The woman’s hand rested on a flat stone table, its surface littered with scrolls. From amidst the clutter, a large snake slithered suddenly into view. It glided towards the little girl, head rearing back, fangs bared in a vicious hiss. 

She squealed, twisting towards her captors in fright. “Please,” she cried, “I’m sorry!”

“This is madness, Kagha,” said the man. “She’s just a—”

“A what, Rath?” Kagha demanded. “A thief? A poison? A threat?”   

Durge chose this moment to speak up, stepping into the light and out of Shadowheart’s field of protection. 

“Apologies for the interruption,” she said. “I felt I should announce my presence.” 

Rath jumped slightly, turning immediately towards Durge. “Where the hells did you come from?”

“Your guards let me pass,” Durge said. 

Shadowheart didn’t think Durge had even noticed the magic that was helping her hide. Ignorance made for a useful deflection of suspicion.

“Our guards?” Rath replied, still shocked. “They should know better than that.”

Durge smiled guiltily. “Please don’t hold it against them. I told them that I can help you solve your problems with the refugees. They all seem to desire a peaceful resolution.”

“There, you see, Kagha!” Rath said, turning again. “No one else in the circle supports your tyranny! Now won’t you hear what this woman has to say?” 

Kagha didn’t look at Durge. Her eyes stuck fast to the shivering tiefling girl. “I will speak to the outsider later. First, judgement must be passed.”

“You call this judgement?” Rath asked. “All I see is an out-of-control power trip.”

Kagha didn’t acknowledge him. She watched the girl with an unblinking focus, eerily reminiscent of her snake’s predatory gaze. 

“This parasite eats our food, drinks our water,” Kagha said quietly. “Then steals our most holy idol in thanks.” 

For a horrible moment, Shadowheart thought she would command the snake to bite her. 

“Rath,” Kagha said, looking suddenly away. “Lock her up. She remains here until the rite is complete.”

“Come Kagha,” he said, softening slightly with relief at her judgement. “We took back the idol. Surely…”

The tiefling girl made a break for it, sprinting towards the chamber door. 

No, Shadowheart thought. You fool. They’ll kill you. 

She did nothing. It was already too late. The girl didn’t make it halfway to the exit before the snake caught her. 

“No!” Rath yelled as sharp fangs sunk into the girl’s skin. 

“Aithyas!” Kagha shouted in alarm, pointing away from the girl. “Teela! To me!” 

The snake slithered away, but the damage was already done. The girl lay in a lifeless heap on the floor. 

Rath ran to her, cradling her body in his arms and trying in vain to wake her with a series of light slaps to the face.

“Gone,” he said finally. “By the gods, Kagha! What have you done?”

Kagha faced away from the body, watching the snake. It had curled up peacefully in a nearby patch of bright green grass, all aggression abandoned. Kagha pressed a hand to her brow. For the moment, she was silent.  

<That’s odd,> Shadowheart told her companions telepathically. <She’s not nearly as sure of herself as she pretends to be.>

<They never are,> Durge drawled wordlessly in reply. 

Kagha got a grip on herself, turning to glare at Rath. “Bury the remains,” she commanded. “Continue the rite.”

“And the parents?” he demanded. “They’re just outside…”

Kagha waved a hand dismissively towards Durge. “This outsider will take word once I’ve spoken to her. We must focus on the rite.”

Durge said nothing. She waited patiently as Rath carried the corpse away. When he'd left, Kagha finally turned her attention to Durge. 

“Go on,” she hissed. “Say it. You think I’m a monster.”   

Durge shook her head. “Not at all. You tried to be merciful. The girl shouldn’t have run.” There was a slight twitch at one corner of her mouth. “Though it did make for quite the show.”

Kagha stared at her, expressionless. “Monsters both, then,” she said.

“Perhaps.” Durge shrugged. “But Zevlor trusts me. As do the rest of the tieflings. Even your fellow druids seem to be warming to me.” She gestured at Kagha. “You, on the other hand, have failed to cultivate goodwill with anyone.”

Kagha bristled, emerging suddenly from her fugue. “I don’t need goodwill. If the outsiders don’t leave willingly, then I’ll expel them by force. And my druids know who their leader is!”

“You’re not their usual leader, though, are you?” Durge asked, a sardonic smile lighting up her face.

“Our Archdruid is indisposed at the moment,” Kagha said with bitter sarcasm.

“Lucky for you.” Durge’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She was all business now. “And you seek to consolidate your power in his absence, yes?” 

“I–” Kagha began, faltering. Then her jaw set. “I’m the only one who understands the threat that plagues us. It must be me who leads this grove to sanctuary.” 

“Then you need your inferiors to trust in your leadership,” Durge said, with the manner of a long-suffering teacher imparting a lesson to an inattentive pupil. “From what I’ve seen, your druids are one step away from mutiny. Those tieflings aren't leaving, not even by force. They'll defend themselves. You’ll have to fight them. And if you lead a slaughter, you risk losing what fragile hold you still have over your circle.”

“Then I won’t slaughter them!” Kagha declared. Shadowheart saw the unmistakable gleam of growing mania in her eyes. “You’ll help me clear them out without violence! Offer your services to Zevlor. Promise to guide them safely out of the grove!” 

“That won’t work,” Durge said, shaking her head. “I told you. They won’t leave. It would be suicide. Not even I can talk an entire community into that.” 

“Then what use are you?” Kagha demanded. 

“You haven’t heard my suggestion yet.” 

Shadowheart felt a prick of dread in her throat—subtle but sharp. She swallowed it, watching in silence, waiting to see what would happen. Secrecy is a Sharran’s armor, she reminded herself. 

“Speak then,” Kagha spat. 

“It’s simple. The tieflings aren’t leaving, and your underlings won’t tolerate violence without due cause.” Durge’s head tilted—her usual tell when something had her full attention. “But you have due cause, don’t you?”

“Yes!” Kagha cried. “These outlanders have infected us like a spreading plague! Silvanus demands we choke them out. Many of my druids see that already! And the ones that don’t—”

“The ones that don’t just need to witness the proper evidence,” Durge interrupted. 

“Yes!” Kagha declared, then frowned. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Leave that to me. Far better if you keep your hands clean. Just be ready to strike when the time arrives.”

Kagha eyed Durge for a moment, then the mania behind her gaze hardened into conviction. “I will be,” she said quietly.

“Very good,” Durge replied. “Of course, I’ll expect payment.”

“What do you want?” Kagha asked bluntly. 

“I’m sure you’ll find my request reasonable,” Durge said. “My friend here is looking for one of your refugees.” 

Durge gestured towards Lae’zel. As the gith stepped forward, Shadowheart let her protection fall away from her. Kagha stared at Lae’zel as though noticing her for the first time, which she likely was. 

“I seek a tiefling by the name of Zorru,” Lae’zel said. “He’s met some of my kin, and I must find out where.”

Kagha nodded, impassive. “Fine. I can arrange that.” 

—

She had him brought to them within minutes—in a secluded section of the inner sanctum.

“Let go of me!” Zorru shouted, thrashing wildly as two druids dragged him inside. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

The druids dumped him in the center of the room and filed out without a word. Kagha was the last to leave, casting a final long look at Durge before she disappeared. The stone door into the room dropped shut behind her with a heavy thud.

All four of them closed in around Zorru. He turned frantically, but it was the sight of Lae’zel that undid him. His breath hitched.

“B-By Mordai’s eyes, another one!” he gasped. “My friends’ blood not enough? Come to rip me open too?”

Lae’zel crossed her arms, unimpressed. “In Crèche K’liir,” she said flatly, “a formal greeting begins with a bow.”

“What is this?” he asked, wild-eyed, glancing rapidly from face to face. 

“You heard the woman,” Durge said, with a grin as sharp as a blade. “Bow.”

Fear overtook his confusion. Trembling, he gave a shallow bow.

“Lower,” Lae’zel commanded. 

Gods, Shadowheart thought. So like a gith to take things too far. 

But neither Durge nor Astarion objected, so she bit her tongue. The tiefling dropped to his knees, gazing up at Lae’zel from the hard stone floor.

“You saw another githyanki,” Lae’zel said. “Where?”

“On the road to Baldur’s Gate,” he stammered. “Near the mountain pass. Saw us ‘fore we saw it. Jammed its b-b-blade through Yul’s belly, straight to the other side.”

“No twisting?” Lae’zel asked. “Kin must have been in a hurry.”

A new wave of tremors ran through his body.

Lae’zel regarded him coldly. “Up. You can keep your innards.”

“You’re letting him go?” Astarion asked, flicking a speck of dust from his nails in a rather theatrical show of disappointment. “All that talk of twisting—I was expecting a bit more spectacle.”

“Cool your blood,” Lae’zel told him. “I’ll indulge you soon enough.” She turned toward the outer chamber, her voice rising. “Open the door!” 

Zorru didn’t hesitate. He scrambled to his feet and fled the room, boots skidding hard against stone as he dove under the partially-risen door.

Lae’zel ignored him. She marched through the door so quickly the rest of them nearly had to run to keep up, barreling past the waiting druids in the adjoining room without another word. 

At a distance from the chamber, in a more secluded section of the grove, she turned to the group. She spoke through the tadpole. <That crèche must be our primary objective. Purification cannot wait.>

<We can’t leave just yet,> Durge said. <That ship crashed not ten miles from here. Odds are there’s more survivors around. More clues about what happened to us. Besides, I’ve got a bargain to uphold.>

<You’re not seriously planning to help that rampaging tyrant?> Shadowheart asked in disbelief.

Amusement rippled across the surface of Durge’s mind. <Of course,> she chirped. <I gave my word, didn't I?>

<You would waste our time on these petty squabbles?> Lae’zel demanded. 

<I'm with the gith,> Astarion said. <Why should we do Kagha’s dirty work for her? She already gave us what we wanted.>

<Sounds like we're all in agreement, then,> Shadowheart said. She couldn't help aiming a smirk at Durge. <Well, almost all.>

Durge closed her eyes, releasing a sharp hiss through her nose. Then she opened them. <Lae’zel,> she said calmly, <how long does the process of turning into a mind flayer take?>

<Your ignorance concerns me,> Lae’zel replied. <The proper term is ceremorphosis.>

<Ceremorphosis, then,> Durge said, nodding in assent. <How long does it take?>

Lae’zel squared her shoulders, lifting her chin.

<It begins as soon as the ghaik tadpole enters your head. It sinks its teeth into your brainstem and devours your brain, bit by bit, growing all the while. You lose your memory and you start to hallucinate. Within a few hours, you're paralyzed. You lie helpless as your hair falls out and you bleed from every orifice. The full transformation takes a week. Your organs reshape; your bones stretch; your jaw splits to allow room for four great tentacles. On the seventh day, you have ceased to exist. A mind flayer is born.>

Durge giggled. <Oh my,> she said approvingly. <You have quite a way with words, Lae’zel.>

The gith shook her head gravely. <This is no laughing matter, istik.> 

<No, indeed.> The smile fell from her face. She turned to Shadowheart and Astarion. <Do either of you notice the discrepancy between Lae’zel’s delightful description and our reality?>

<Of course,> Astarion answered with a grimace. <It's as plain as day. That horror show should've started by now.>

<How do we know that it hasn't?> Shadowheart said, looking at Durge. <After all, at least one of us has lost her memories.>

She didn't mention, of course, that it was actually two of them who’d lost their memories. At least Shadowheart knew exactly where hers had gone. 

<You've lost your memories?> Lae’zel rounded on Durge. <Have you experienced any other symptoms?>

<No, Lae’zel, I haven’t experienced any other symptoms.> Durge held Lae’zel’s vicious glare. <None of us have. That's my point. And my memories were gone when I woke up on that mind flayer ship. They didn't vanish over time.>

<A convenient distinction.> Lae’zel’s slitted eyes narrowed. <Yet you still neglected to mention it.>

<I mentioned it. But you were stuck in a cage at the time. So I suppose you couldn't hear me.> Durge stepped closer to Lae’zel, who released a low growl. Durge stood her ground. <None of that changes the fact that, assuming you haven’t been misinformed by your precious crèche, ceremorphosis should have taken us by now. It should already be too late.>

Lae’zel stepped towards Durge. Their faces were nearly touching now. <All the more reason to find the créche as soon as possible.>

<All the more reason not to restrict ourselves to just one plan.>

They stared at each other, like two wild beasts vying for dominance. Shadowheart found herself wondering who would pounce first. 

<I’ve changed my mind,> Astarion said suddenly. Both their heads snapped towards him. <Durge is right. Whatever maggots have crawled into our heads are clearly even more freakish than usual.>

<Shadowheart?> Durge asked, turning towards her. 

She hesitated. Who to side with—the relentless gith or the half-mad half-elf? Which was the lesser evil? Or was it the greater she needed to make it out of this alive? 

She had little faith that the githyanki would actually want to help them, and even less desire to try to hide the artefact she’d stolen while wandering around another crèche. It was one thing when they’d thought they had a time limit, when this zaith'isk was their only lead… but if Durge was right… if these tadpoles had been altered in some inexplicable way… odds were high that the githyanki would simply destroy them on sight.

Shadowheart sighed. A part of her feared she might come to regret this. 

<I’m with Durge,> she said.