Sunlight filtered into Alex’s tent, waking him up from what he hoped was just a long nightmare. But no, he was still in his bedroll, still in his druidic tent, still encamped somewhere in Faer?n. He closed his eyes and rolled over, futilely trying to block out the sun and the sounds of his rousing companions. What am I even doing here anymore?

  Soon, he heard the crackling of a reignited campfire, the dull, repetitive thunk of a knife against a cutting board, and the sound of something sizzling in a pan. The voices of a few of his companions carried over, quietly murmuring out of respect for those still asleep. What’s the point of any of this?

  He imagined what it must have been like. Elena, waking up to find his corpse in bed next to her. Wailing, distraught, desperately trying to revive him. Melanie running in, wondering why daddy wasn’t waking up. And then the funeral, probably relatively small, just close family and his few friends, Melanie sobbing the whole time and Elena doing her best to keep it together. Cleaning out all his stuff, struggling to decide what to keep and what to get rid of. And then all the procedural, bureaucratic nonsense: waiting on hold with the life insurance company, making copies of the death certificate to send to his bank, cancelling his credit card and cell phone and all his online accounts. All while struggling to get used to doing everything alone. It’s been five years.

  Elena probably doesn’t look much different. Maybe a few more gray hairs, but that’s it. She probably didn’t have much difficulty finding a new husband. I don’t blame her, but…

  He released a heavy sigh, unsure if he should feel mournful, relieved, or jealous. Or all three. But Melanie probably looks completely different. Five years? She should be in fourth grade by now…

  He blinked away the tears that threatened to form and rubbed his eyes. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

  He stared into the wall of his tent, seeking answers and comfort. Bolothamogg had no reason to lie. In fact, it actually seemed to gloat about my circumstances.

  There’s no reason for me to continue with this stupid quest anymore. The only reason I went along with it is because of the hope of returning home. Now… what does it matter if the Absolute wins? This planet means nothing to me. I don’t belong here. Why should I suffer? Elminster or some other adventurers can deal with it.

  But what else am I supposed to do? Kill myself? No, I don’t have the guts to do that. And how funny would that be, dodging death twice only to inflict it upon myself. If Elena knew, she would hate me.

  Live like a hermit in the wilderness? Crawl back to the Emerald Grove and become a druid? Pick a direction and start wandering?

  No, the others wouldn’t join me. They all want to remove their tadpoles or get to Baldur’s Gate. And being alone out here in the wilderness would be certain death. And pretty miserable, to be honest.

  Maybe I can try to eke out some sort of existence once we reach civilization. Baldur’s Gate is a major port city, right? So it would be like living in Barcelona, only from five hundred years ago. Not the worst place to live, I guess.

  If I'm lucky, I could even get a comfy job. Find a civil engineering position with the city, as some sort of low level bureaucrat. Live out a mundane existence until I die. And… that’s it.

  Is that all that’s left for me?

  “Hey, Alex, you alright in there?” called Karlach from outside his tent.

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm his roiling emotions, then exited his tent. Karlach stood outside, looking worried. He glanced over at the campfire and saw the rest of his companions sitting around, eating breakfast. Even Lae’zel and Gale were there, though they both looked quite morose.

  “I’m… not okay,” he admitted, looking past Karlach into the void. “But I don’t want to talk about it. For now, anyway.”

  “I understand,” said Karlach, sounding like she earnestly meant it. “You don’t have to tell us. But you should at least eat something.”

  “...I guess,” he conceded and followed her over to the campfire. The remnants of a pan of sausage, bacon, and eggs sat on a nearby log.

  “Karlach and I got up early to cook breakfast,” said Wyll, offering the cast iron pan. “We tried to save some for you, but-”

  “-It’s alright,” he interrupted, scooping the last bits into a bowl. “I’m not that hungry anyway. But thanks for cooking.” He sat down by himself and stared into the smoldering fire, forcing himself to spoon the food into his mouth. It tasted cold, bland, and slightly charred. The unwanted remnants of an otherwise hearty meal.

  “So, it sounds like we’ve got quite a number of problems on our hands,” said Astarion, breaking the awkward silence. “Lae’zel managed to get the entire githyanki empire on our tail. Gale has been ordered by his ex-lover to blow himself up. Alex was told something by Elminster that seems to be just as worse. And all this right before we enter the Shadow-Cursed Lands.”

  “...Is that what Elminster told you, Gale?” asked Alex in a low voice, still staring into the fire, already knowing the answer.

  “I would have worded it more eloquently… but in effect, yes,” answered Gale, shoulders slumped. “He imbued me with a charm to control the detonation of my orb and restored some of my former power. Told me that I would earn Mystra’s forgiveness if I use it to destroy the Absolute.”

  “...Will you do it?”

  “I have no choice, do I?” Gale sighed. “Regardless of what I think about her now, one does not simply defy the goddess of magic. Especially as someone whose only talent in life is completely dependent on her Weave.” Whatever joviality the companions had left vanished, sucked out by his words.

  “What did Elminster talk with you about, Alex?” asked Shadowheart with trepidation.

  “...I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Another awkward silence descended like a shroud, snuffing out any last hopes of polite conversation. Alex finished eating and realized everyone seemed hesitant, unsure of what to do next. There is only one path forward: into the Shadow Curse. No point in moping around and delaying and eating more of our supplies. Let's get this over with before I change my mind and start walking back to the Grove.

  He stood up. “If everyone is done eating, let’s get ready to move out.”

  The Shadow Curse loomed in front of them. A giant veil of darkness, spanning across the road and as far the eye could see. Malevolent shadows swirled behind it, some trying to reach outward and grab them.

  Heeding advice from Halsin, everyone held a light source. Wyll held the Blood of Lathander, Gale spawned a magical light at the end of his staff, and everyone else lifted a torch. The Shadow Curse receded, then enclosed behind them after they passed through the veil, held at bay only by their faint pinpricks of light.

  It felt like being in a bubble of air at the bottom of a dark lake. The darkness swirled around them, all-encompassing, completely blocking out the sun. Alex was instantly overcome with the feeling of being watched, as if the shadows concealed a thousand sets of eyes trained solely on him. The land itself was cracked, jagged, and lifeless, the seafloor at the deepest, darkest part of a hostile ocean.

  The only natural light came from the moon, casting its faint, white, unearthly glow on the squalid landscape, and green strands of necrotic magic, which sprang from fissures in the ground in a noxious mist. They illuminated a broken, twisted landscape of gnarled trees, withered shrubs, and the occasional desiccated corpse of a foolhardy traveler.

  Peering around in the darkness, they soon found the tieflings’ tracks, leading them along what was once a road, but was now only an abandoned dirt path, broken by the roots of malignant trees and the cracks of a corrupted earth. They cautiously followed the trail, moving carefully and deliberately to avoid stumbling and alerting any creatures in the shadowy depths.

  After a painfully slow few hours, they found it. What Alex had been expecting, but dreading: the remnants of the tiefling caravan. The splintered wrecks of the familiar wagons, crates, and chests littered a clearing. Dried blood, stray arrows, discarded weapons, and scorched patches of earth indicated the site of a battle. Or more accurately, a slaughter. He spotted a discarded shield messily painted with the symbol of the Absolute in blood.

  He surveyed the somber scene, not sure what to think. His companions, especially Wyll and Karlach, all seemed at least somewhat upset. But he felt… nothing. Just strangely detached. I knew this was coming, so I’m not exactly shocked. But still, does this mean Elminster was also lying about fate being malleable? So many things have been different from the game, and yet the tieflings still ended up dead here. As if they were destined to die in the Shadow Curse, even with Halsin’s help.

  Does anything I do even matter?

  Strangely, there were no bodies, even those of the oxen. Drag marks in the dirt pointed to the dead and injured being taken away after the battle, into the depths of the Shadow Curse. On the other side of the clearing, footprints led down a side path, with flattened shrubs indicating a hasty, wild flight.

  Did some of them escape, like in the game? Did Halsin make it? Does this path lead to Last Light Inn, or just to a dead end?

  Deciding to hunt for potential survivors, they followed the side path, cutting through a forest of dead trees and shrubs, carefully following the frantic footprints on a winding trail through the darkness. For what felt like hours, they followed the trail, but they dared not stop, hearing things creeping and shifting in the shadows as they passed by, headed deeper and deeper into the Curse.

  Finally, poking through the thicket of trees came a gentle, welcoming orange glow, the first indication of civilization in the darkness. Welcome to the Last Light Inn, greeted a worn, decrepit, barely legible sign as the group emerged from the woodline and found themselves on the shore of a large, dark lake. An old stone bridge, lined with burning torches, led to a small island not far from the shore. On the island sat a sprawling, two-story wooden building, aglow with the light of dozens of torches, lanterns, candles, and braziers, like a lighthouse signaling wayward ships. And surrounding it all was a giant dome of shimmering white magic, holding firm as waves of shadows crashed against it.

  “Divine magic of the moon goddess,” assessed Shadowheart, wearing a sharp frown. “Keeping out Lady Shar’s magic.”

  “Whatever you think of it, it’s also the only sign of life and shelter for miles. And that means any surviving tieflings are probably here. I’m going in, whether you come or not,” said Alex, eager to get out of the twisting shadows.

  Everyone else agreed and followed him across the bridge, even Shadowheart despite her muttering. At the other end, a trio of guards stood behind improvised wooden barricades and shouted a call of alarm as the party approached, rousing the inn to life.

  “Halt!” barked one of the guards as more rushed to the barricade and the opposite shore. Some pointed crossbows in their direction, and Alex held up his hands and stopped, his companions following his lead.

  He recognized one of the warriors behind the barricade. An older half-elf, wearing well-used leather armor and wielding dual scimitars. Jaheira.

  “These lands are not meant for travelers,” she called, “and yet though you are armed, you are not dressed like our enemy. What business do you have here?”

  Jaheira appreciates honesty, right? Kind of like Lae’zel, except less hotheaded and more perceptive. Better to use a direct approach.

  “We are here because we’re trying to get to Baldur’s Gate. We were traveling with a caravan of tieflings and got separated right before entering these Shadow-Cursed Lands,” he explained, being completely honest. “We saw the remnants of their caravan and think they may have come here.”

  “Is that so?” Jaheira turned to a figure coming up to the barricade beside her. “Do you know these travelers?”

  To his relief, Halsin stepped up to the barricade and immediately broke into a large smile. “Yes, I do. My friends, it is a great relief to see you again.”

  At Jaheira’s signal, the guards lowered their weapons and retreated. She and Halsin beckoned the party inside.

  “Wait, so you’re really Jaheira? The Jaheira?” asked Karlach, starstruck. “You’re one of my childhood heroes!”

  “Eh, then you probably should get better heroes,” replied Jaheira dismissively. “I’m not exactly the best role model.”

  Jaheira and Halsin lead the party past the barricades, through the courtyard, and into the decrepit inn, making introductions along the way. Though it had seen better days, it was still serviceable as a temporary shelter and a defendable position for the few forces of good in the Shadow-Cursed Lands.

  Harpers, thought Alex, recognizing the silver harp-shaped pin that several of the soldiers wore on their cloaks. And Flaming Fists, spotting their fiery symbol on several shields and surcoats.

  “Thank the gods you’re alright!” called a familiar voice. Alex turned to see Alfira running up to them as they entered, a small smile of relief cutting through her evident exhaustion. “We all thought you were goners for sure!”

  She almost gave Karlach a hug, then caught herself at the last moment and settled with giving a quick one to Wyll instead.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” said Wyll. “We did have quite the dangerous adventure in the monastery. But nothing that can compare to what you all must have experienced.”

  Alex looked around. The first floor of the inn was set up like a tavern, with several scattered tables and chairs and a bar in the rear stocked with dusty bottles. A hallway and several rooms branched off, and through one of the open doors, he spotted what seemed to be a kitchen. An empty doorway, its door presumably lost to time, led outside to the side of the inn, and a set of rickety stairs led up to the second floor.

  Everything was worn, shabby, and coated with dust. The floorboards creaked with each step and the faint smell of mildew permeated the place. And in the back of the room, sitting around the bar, he spotted a few pitiful-looking tieflings.

  Rolan sat slumped over the bar, dozing with an empty bottle of liquor next to him. Cerys sat next to him, staring blankly ahead, grasping her own bottle. A handful of tiefling children sat in the corner, talking quietly to each other between sobs.

  “Is that everyone?” asked Karlach, utter gloom spreading across her face. “Everyone who… made it?”

  “I'm afraid so,” replied Alfira, eyes downcast. “Poor Bex hasn’t left our room, but that’s everyone else. We were attacked out there in the Curse. Zevlor ordered Rolan, Cerys, and Halsin to retreat with whoever they could bring… but by then, it was almost too late.”

  “They surrounded us. Rolan created an opening, then I led who I could here. I remembered this place from when I fought Ketheric Thorn and his Sharrans a hundred years ago,” said Halsin, following Jaheira over to a long table, the party in tow. “But I certainly did not expect it to be occupied.”

  “Then imagine my surprise when the legendary archdruid himself walks in here, carrying an armful of kids, looking no different than a century ago.” Jaheira sat down at the table and gestured for everyone to follow suit. “Though I wish the reunion could have been under better circumstances.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Indeed. I only wish that I could have done more. But those cultists… they were overwhelming. I fear that even if you all had been present, it would have merely prolonged the inevitable,” said Halsin grimly. “But I am sincerely glad to see you all again. When you didn’t emerge from the crèche that night, I thought for sure you all had been killed.”

  They sat down and filled Halsin in on their journey into the crèche, Jaheira and Alfira listening in the background. Wyll, Karlach, and Shadowheart recounted their encounter with the inquisitor, their journey into the prism, and their escape from the monastery. Just as they wrapped up the story, a voice of surprise called out behind Wyll.

  “Wyll Ravengard? Is that really you?” A tall, dark-skinned elf strode over, headed straight for Wyll. She wore an elegant wizard’s robe, with a broach emblazoned with the logo of the Flaming Fist, and had an expression of disbelief. “Wyll… it’s been years. What are you doing here? And what happened to you?”

  “Councillor Florrick?” Wyll stood up with his own expression of disbelief. “I saw the Flaming Fist soldiers outside, but I didn’t think you would be with them.” He paused and self-consciously gestured to his horns. “And as for these… well, it’s kind of a long story.”

  Florrick looked like she was about to demand an explanation when two familiar faces ran up and interrupted. Scratch and the Owlbear Cub, both looking quite happy to be reunited with the party, jumped up on Shadowheart, pleading for attention.

  “Ah, I almost forgot these two,” said Halsin. “They fled with us here after the attack on the caravan. And they’ve done a wonderful job keeping morale up.”

  “Well, isn’t this one big happy family reunion,” said Jaheira wryly. “How about we all get our stories straight?”

  Seeing that everyone here was a friend, or at least not a foe, Jaheira explained what she and the Harpers were doing in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. They had been on a reconnaissance mission, scouting the area around Moonrise Towers after learning that it could be the headquarters of a rising cult that threatened the safety of the Sword Coast. They found the cult’s growing army… or more accurately, the army found them, attacking their encampment and forcing a retreat through the Shadow Curse until they stumbled upon the Last Light Inn and constructed a more fortified position.

  Florrick followed, explaining how she and her platoon of Flaming Fist had been on their way back from Elturel, escorting Grand Duke Ravengard on a diplomatic mission. During a stop at Waukeen’s Rest, they were attacked by an army of goblins, led by a drow. The Flaming Fist barely held them off, but the goblins kidnapped Ravengard as the inn burned. After healing their wounded and burying their dead, Florrick and her troops began their pursuit, chasing the goblins to the Shadow-Cursed Lands until they lost them in the darkness. “And then we found our way here, just like the rest of you,” concluded Florrick. “We’ve only been here a few days, trying to figure out our next move.”

  Wyll looked particularly distressed. “So then, my father…”

  “Is most likely being held by the cult,” finished Jaheira. “From what I’ve learned and what Halsin shared, it sounds like this cult is using mind flayer tadpoles to control people. And who better to control than the Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate?”

  “And that’s most likely where any other surviving tieflings would be,” added Halsin. “Moonrise Towers. That’s where Ketheric Thorm was headquartered last time we faced him.”

  “Last time?” repeated Shadowheart, eyebrow raised. “I thought you said that you defeated him a hundred years ago. Him and his army of Sharrans.” She puffed out her chest, very clearly displaying the symbol of Shar on her breastplate.

  “Unfortunately, he’s a tough old bastard. And that’s coming from me,” said Jaheira. “I witnessed his death myself. But only a few days ago, he led the attack on our encampment, looking no more dead than you or I. Something brought him back, and I don’t think it was your goddesses’s magic. He took an arrow right to the eye, only to pull it out and keep fighting like it was nothing.”

  “So let me get this straight: we’re in a land cursed by shadow magic, we are being hunted by an army of crazed cultists led by some sort of undead general, and a bunch of kidnapped people are being held at their headquarters?” summarized Astarion, eyes narrowed. “It sounds like the only reason you told us this is because you want something.”

  “How insightful of you,” replied Jaheira, with obvious sarcasm. “Of course I want something from you. But first, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She gestured to the stairs, where a young woman with short white hair and silver robes slowly descended, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  “More company?” she asked in a quiet, kind voice, smiling shyly at the attention she received from the full table. “Sorry I couldn’t be here to greet all of you, but Jaheira insists that I get plenty of rest.”

  “Because you need it, if we are to survive this,” said Jaheira warmly. “This is Isobel, my favorite cleric and one of our secret weapons against the cult.”

  Introductions quickly went around, but Alex noticed that Shadowheart seemed more terse than usual and rubbed at the back of her right hand. Is that her divine wound? I haven’t noticed her bothered by it until now. Maybe she was just hiding it really well. Or maybe we haven’t done anything up until now that annoyed Shar.

  “What is a cleric of Sel?ne doing here?” she asked, noticeably displeased at Isobel’s appearance. “This land has been blessed by Lady Shar.”

  “I would have used a different word, Sharran,” replied Isobel with a cool smile, tension crackling the air between them. “But I am not here to argue with you. My concern is protecting this inn.”

  “Isobel is the one maintaining the moon shield, the only thing keeping out the Curse,” explained Jaheira, with a pointed look at Shadowheart. “Without her, this place would have fallen. So I suggest you be nice to her.”

  Shadowheart huffed and turned away, but Alex noticed that she still idly rubbed at her hand. I suppose Shar isn’t too happy about us working with a cleric of Sel?ne. But I’m just glad that Shadowheart isn’t outright hostile to Isobel.

  “You said ‘one of our secret weapons’,” said Alex, looking directly at Jaheira, already knowing her response. “What others do you have?”

  “Just one,” she answered, meeting his gaze. “You, of course. Halsin was kind enough to explain how you are able to silence the tadpoles. Which is the only reason that I allowed your tadpoled companions to walk in here,” she added, sweeping her stern gaze over the rest of the party.

  “Okay, so you know I can somehow silence the tadpoles,” he said. “But how does that make me a secret weapon?”

  “Because it makes you the shepherd of a flock of wolves in sheeps’ clothing,” she replied, with a fittingly wolfish grin. “The cult infects its officers with mind flayer tadpoles. They call them ‘True Souls’. With your companions’ tadpoles, you can pose as a party of True Souls. Or perhaps a party of True Souls and one pilgrim, eager to worship the Absolute. You can infiltrate Moonrise and figure out what’s really going on there. Once the cultists sense your tadpoles, they’ll practically let you walk in.”

  Of course. Just like in the game, she wants to use us. Or more specifically, me.

  “And why would we do that?” asked Astarion. “Pardon my sense of self-preservation, but marching into the den of a deadly cult seems more suicidal than useful.”

  Jaheira’s friendly grin vanished, replaced with seriousness. “Because like it or not, this cult is dangerous. I’m not sure how they are working with mind flayers, but it is clear that there is more to them than just simple worship. If they do not already, they will soon have control of the Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate. And from there, their influence will only spread to other cities until the entire Sword Coast is under their control. Nowhere will be safe.” She looked imploringly at Alex. “Please, you must see this. The cult is dangerous and must be nipped in the bud before it can flower into something deadlier. We need to know what we’re up against.”

  Alex looked away, thinking back to earlier this morning. This does not have to be my fight. Why should I care what happens to this place? “I get that this is a terrible situation, I really do. But I’m not a soldier or a spy. I’m just a regular person, caught up in this mess,” he said with a shrug. “I just want to be left alone.”

  “I know many people who’ve said those words,” she said, a vaguely faraway look in her eyes. “They either rose to the occasion or ended up dead.” She turned to appeal to his companions. “You all should be aware by now that your tadpoles are special. They cannot be removed by normal healing magic. Alex may be able to quiet them, but it is no permanent solution. I suspect that the answers you seek lie at Moonrise.” And finally, she turned back to Astarion. “And even if you simply wish to skip this whole conflict, the cult’s forces are watching the road out of here closer than a hawk watches a mouse. Even my best scouts would have difficulty sneaking past them.”

  “Please,” pleaded Alfira, who had been quiet the whole time. “If there is truly a chance that any survivors are at Moonrise, please rescue them. I beg of you.”

  Astarion rolled his eyes, but Wyll and Karlach both nodded. She flashed an encouraging smile. “You can count on us!”

  “...I’ll think about it,” said Alex, more to himself than anyone else.

  Jaheira gave them the tour, laid down the ground rules, and showed them to an empty room on the second floor. “Bathrooms and storage on the first floor, with additional storage in the basement, take what you need but don’t be greedy about it. Kitchen next to the bar, we’ll keep you fed but don’t expect anything fancy. Infirmary over there, but please don’t waste the healer’s time. The quartermaster is set up outside, ask her if you need any new weapons or armor. And finally, here’s your room. It isn’t much, but whatever you do, do not disturb Isobel, she needs her rest to keep up the moon shield.”

  Their room was bare, dark, and dusty, but thankfully spacious. They quickly went to work making it home. Gale used prestidigitation to sweep the floors and clear the cobwebs while everyone else unloaded their trunks and lit a few lanterns. In no time at all, the large room was turned into a makeshift dormitory, with everyone having claimed a spot for their bedroll and personal effects. Alex double-checked his chest, verifying that his clothes, books, and most importantly, his journal, were intact.

  Spying a mirror on the wall, freshly cleaned of years of dust, Alex went over to take a look, realizing that he hadn’t properly looked at himself since arriving on Toril a month ago. He almost did a double-take at the person who stared back. I look crazy.

  His face was lean and thin, nearly all of its baby fat burned away. But that was the only redeeming quality. His hair, already somewhat difficult to tame on Earth, looked long, tangled, and unkept, with his bangs reaching down to tickle his eyes. His facial hair, normally kept short through regular shaving, was blossoming into a beard, albeit messy and flecked with bits of dust, dirt, and dried blood. And underneath his eyes, his trademark dark circles had grown and grown, like he had gone years without sleep.

  Would Elena even recognize me? I barely recognize myself. He stared for a minute, thinking about everything that happened in the past month. He resolved to clean himself up, at the very least.

  He headed downstairs to investigate the bathrooms. Like the rest of the inn, they were worn, dated, and decrepit, but thankfully looked and smelled usable and not absolutely disgusting. Each had a sink with a hand pump, a wooden bench with a hole that served as a crude toilet, and a large wooden tub. Not ideal. But it could be worse.

  Before heading back upstairs, he peeked into the storage closets, eventually finding a shelf full of various potions. He grabbed a small vial of healing potion, small enough that it probably wouldn’t be missed. Just in case. Back in their room, he grabbed everything he needed to properly clean himself for the first time since leaving the Grove over a tenday ago. Soap, toothbrush, towel, wash basin, change of clothes. And with some hesitation, the least-rusted of his knives.

  He picked the least odorous of the bathrooms and shut the door, leaving the room illuminated only by a pair of candles and the slivers of moonlight that peeked through the shutters. He double-checked that the stopper was in-place, then began the laborious process of filling the tub. He placed a bucket in the sink and pumped water into it, then transferred the water to the tub, slowly but surely filling it. I hope this water is coming from a well, and not the same place where that toilet discharges to.

  Finally, he slipped into the tub. The water was cool, causing him to instantly break into goosebumps, but mercifully not too cold. He washed off countless days of grime, turning the water a murky brown. Finished, he pulled the stopper, draining the dirty water, and poured a final bucket over himself to rinse.

  Feeling refreshed for the first time since leaving the Grove, he checked himself in the dusty mirror, seeing his disorderly wet hair flop around. I can’t do much about that. But there is something else I can do.

  With a grimace, he picked up the knife, ensuring that the small vial of healing potion was within reach. Looking intently at the mirror, he raised the knife to his face and pressed down carefully, then started to shave. He winced each time the blade bit into this skin, but kept going, watching the hair fall from his face, mixed with a trickle of blood. Towards the end, he finally got the hang of it, creating no further cuts as the last of the scraggly hair fell away.

  His almost-beard was gone, replaced by a bloody face that looked like it had been stuck in a blender. Wincing with each breath of air against the open cuts, he downed the healing potion, watching his cuts seal up and thankfully leave no scars. He washed the blood off his face and knife, satisfied. He got dressed and combed his hair, parting it to the side in a rough semblance of his former hairstyle. Then, feeling human once again, he returned to their room.

  “You humans and your grooming habits,” said Lae’zel, noting his refreshed appearance. “You were gone for so long, I was beginning to think you had wandered into the lake.”

  “Glad to see you, too, Lae’zel,” he said, dropping his items back into his chest. At least she seems somewhat back to normal.

  “I must say, I’m glad you shaved. It was beginning to get difficult to tell you and Gale apart,” teased Shadowheart.

  “Hey now, I take great pride in my beard!” said Gale, somewhat indignantly. “It is practically an unspoken requirement of male wizards, after all.”

  So does Gale, thankfully. And at least I can recognize my own reflection. After putting away his belongings, he headed downstairs for a solitary meal. Stuck in the neverending darkness of the Shadow Curse, he had no sense of time, except that it must be evening because he was hungry for dinner. He grabbed a bowl of stew from the kitchen, ate quickly before anyone could approach him and strike up a conversation, then retreated back upstairs.

  He picked up his journal, dodging his companions’ conversations, and looked around for an isolated but well-lit place to write. The downstairs tavern was too crowded, the empty rooms on the second floor too dim. After circling around and exploring the upstairs, he found a set of double doors that led outdoors, onto a balcony that wrapped partway around the building.

  The wood creaked underfoot with each tentative step, but otherwise seemed intact. Outside, he bathed in the silver glow of both the moon shield and the moon itself, its gentle light cutting through the Shadow Curse like a guiding lantern. Aside from the moon, only a few bright stars were visible, the rest of the heavens hidden behind the veil of the Curse.

  Glancing around, he saw that he was completely alone, with only the occasional Harper or Flaming Fist circling below on patrol. Looking toward the horizon, he could only see the dark waters of the lake, appearing like an unending ocean at the edge of the world. He sat down on a discarded chair, gathered his thoughts, and began to write, recording everything that occurred since his last entry, the day before they reached Rosymorn Monastery. As usual, he recorded the events of the past few days chronologically and dispassionately, then added his thoughts at the end:

  Even without having to care for Melanie, I am exhausted. It feels like I’ve been constantly running from place to place with little rest and only a vague goal, being dragged along by everyone else because I have no other choice. I hate feeling completely useless, like nothing I do even matters.

  He glared up at Bolothamogg’s swirling void, tinted a slight purple from Y’chak’s violet flame, the two of them once again taking the place of the moon. And I absolutely hate being someone else’s pawn.

  The tree branches rustled in a gentle springtime breeze, carrying the aroma of freshly cut grass. Behind the pair of trees sat their house, a prototypical suburban model, complete with welcoming red shutters, worn asphalt shingles, and a friendly brick facade. Playful pink curtains and rainbow stickers adorned the corner window that looked out from Melanie’s playroom.

  A fireball fell from the sky, crashing into their neighbor’s house and setting it ablaze. And another, and another, until flames engulfed the entire street. The shadow of a massive, low-flying aircraft moved across their lawn and the front door of their house flew open. Elena ran out, yanking Melanie’s hand behind her, just as a fireball slammed into their house, turning it into an instant inferno and setting the trees alight like matches.

  They sprinted down their burning street, sirens and screams wailing around them. And then, from just out of frame, the black tentacles of a nautiloid reached toward them.

  Alex’s eyes snapped open, heart racing. He laid there for a minute, breathing heavily, until he forced himself to sit up. Around him, his companions dozed peacefully in their bedrolls, blissfully unaware of his turmoil.

  Did you enjoy that little display? rumbled Bolothamogg’s voice in his head.

  Alex eyed his sleeping companions, then carefully rose and snuck out of their room. He headed for the balcony, which thankfully remained empty. The moon shield glimmered overhead, but the moon itself had been replaced by Bolothamogg’s swirling form.

  “What do you want?” whispered Alex, still in partial shock. “Did you send me that nightmare?”

  Of course I did. After all, you need motivation.

  “Motivation for what?”

  Continuing your task, obviously. I can’t have this little game end prematurely and let Y’chak win by default.

  He glowered up at the void while Bolothamogg chortled with amusement. “Maybe if I still had a chance to return home, I would be more motivated.”

  I suppose, but have I been nothing but honest with you? Imagine if instead I simply concealed the truth, until right at the very end. Dangled hope in front of you until the game was finished, only to yank it away.

  “How kind of you to be upfront with me instead,” said Alex, not bothering to mask his frustration. “So what? I’m supposed to keep moving forward because of a bad dream?”

  Not just a bad dream. A vision of what will pass if the Absolute is not defeated. You may not realize it, but the Grand Design will not engulf just Realmspace, but the whole universe. The illithids are nothing if not persistent and patient. It will only be a matter of time before they reach Earth, no matter what that sage told you of it being unnavigable. And then, I’m sure you know what fate awaits its inhabitants...

  Long after the moon returned and Bolothamogg left his mind, Alex remained on the balcony, staring out at the shadows twisting beyond the moon shield. He once again reviewed the events of the past month, remembering their mission to scout the Goblin Camp and their agreement to protect the tieflings on the road. And now, Jaheira was pressuring him to risk everything and infiltrate Moonrise Towers. This whole time, I allowed others to use me. I went along with it because I wanted to play it safe. Because I hoped that it would end with me going home.

  Bolothamogg is right, as much as I hate to admit it. The Grand Design will eventually cover the universe if it comes to pass. And in this universe, though they may be impossibly far away in both distance and time, is my family.

  He clenched his fists, staring defiantly up at the moon. “I'll continue along with your game. But only because I want to. Not because you are forcing me.”

  When his companions came downstairs, wiping sleep from their eyes, they found him already fully dressed in his armor, weapons in their sheathes, satchel full of supplies, and spear resting against the wall next to him. An empty bowl crusted with the remains of breakfast sat in front of him as he pored over a crude map of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, given to him by Jaheira, who had seemed surprised by his sudden change of heart.

  I guess Bolothamogg was wrong about one thing. In the grand scheme of the entire universe, I am not special. But here in Faer?n, I am, for better or worse.

  “Hey soldier,” said Karlach behind him, sounding confused. “Why are you dressed like… a soldier, so early?”

  He turned and faced the group, who all had varying levels of concern. “Because I’m going to Moonrise Towers, whether you’re coming along or not."