Chapter Text

Prologue: The Storm's Child

In a small fortress perched atop a jagged stone spur in the Sea of Swords, just north of Waterdeep, the inhabitants gathered outside a small chamber where an elven woman labored, attended by her husband and a midwife. Outside, a storm raged with unusual ferocity, and all understood it for the omen that it was.

The knights of the Blue Moon stood vigil, their armor gleaming dully in the torchlight. Some whispered prayers to Mystra, others to Selûne. A few cast worried glances toward the window where lightning split the sky in violent, unnatural patterns.

"The winds speak," murmured Sir Aldric, his weathered hand resting on his sword hilt. "They know what comes."

The delivery happened without complication, the infant girl fighting her way into the world with a squall to match that of the storm. As the midwife handed her over to her mother, electricity crackled over the child's skin, dancing along her tiny fingers before settling into her flesh.

At this sign of power passed down in blood, her mother began to weep, and her father to pray.

From the crowd gathered around the doorway, an older cleric stepped forward. His hair was silver-white, his face lined with decades of service, and the symbol on his robes marked him as a high priest of Mystra. "The child carries the bloodline," he stated, his voice carrying throughout the hallway..

"Yes," the father acknowledged, reluctantly. The mother continued to weep silently, pressing her face into the babe's soft head, breathing in her scent as if to memorize it.

"Your family will come for her," said the priest, not unkindly, but with finality.

The father nodded, his jaw tight with suppressed anguish. The Wendeam family carried an ancient sorcerous bloodline said to be inherited from the Wind Dukes of Aaqa themselves. They were a powerful family and proud, but over the years, the children born with the gifts of their bloodline had grown rarer. As those who carried the sorcerous bloodline dwindled, the other members of the family took advantage of the shift. They developed mechanisms of control, and now any sorcerer born to the family lived out their life conscripted to Wendeam ships. They were forced to control the winds for the family all their days, their magic bent to profit rather than purpose.

The patriarchs would not allow a child with the gift to walk free. So long as she existed, they would hunt her. Unless someone else had a more powerful claim.

Gently, the father took the newborn from his wife's arms. His hands trembled as he held her one last time, memorizing the weight of her, the way her tiny fist curled around his finger. Then, with the resolve of a man choosing the lesser of two evils, he handed her to the priest.

The priest swaddled her in a purple cloth blessed with protective wards and held her close. "Mystra accepts your gift. The child now belongs to her. She will be protected under the care of the goddess." Then, as an afterthought, "What is her name?"

The mother had never stopped crying, but now she finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "Wren," she said, and then dissolved into tears that would not stop for days to come. It was an oddly delicate and fragile name for a girl with lightning and thunder in her veins. 

The priest nodded solemnly. "We have a wet nurse available. She will be well cared for. It's best if you go now and don’t return, don't seek her out or try to make contact. Let this be a clean break. The goddess will be her Mother now."

And with that, he turned and walked away, the child cradled against his chest as thunder rolled overhead. 

Wren was raised within the fortress walls by the knights of the Blue Moon, an order of adherents to both Mystra and Selûne who fought the darkness spread by Shar’s followers together. But there was never any doubt about which goddess had claimed Wren.

From the time she could walk, her powers were trained and honed to be a tool and a weapon in service to the Mother of Magic. Every day began before dawn with meditation, followed by lessons in the Weave. As she grew older, she started combat training, and instruction in the arts of stealth and subterfuge.

Not that Wren made it easy.

She was as stormy a child as her bloodline suggested, and she fought her training at every turn. At twelve years old, she made her first escape attempt, scaling the fortress walls in the dead of night during a thunderstorm. She made it nearly to the mainland before Sir Aldric found her, soaked and shivering but defiant, trying to stow away on a fishing boat.

"Where did you think you would go, child?" he asked as he wrapped her in his cloak.

"Anywhere," she replied, her young voice fierce with determination. "Somewhere they can't find me."

But no such place existed.

She ran away six more times over the next few years, each attempt more clever than the last. Once, she disguised herself as a kitchen servant and nearly made it aboard a merchant vessel. Another time, she used her budding sorcery to create a fog so thick the guards couldn't see her slip over the walls. But always, always, they found her and brought her back.

The punishments were never physical. Mystra's servants were not cruel. Instead, they confined her to solitary meditation chambers, surrounded her with protective wards that dampened her magic until she felt hollow and emptied out. Worst of all, Father Devane would look at her with those disappointed green eyes and ask why she wanted to leave so badly. That somehow hurt more than any lashing could have, especially because she didn’t have an answer.

Devane was an elf only 100 years Wren’s senior. His first role as a cleric was as Wren’s primary mentor and spiritual guide. Unlike the other clerics, who maintained professional distance, he seemed to genuinely care for her wellbeing. Perhaps it was because he was still so young himself by the measure of their people. He was the first one who asked her what she wanted, who listened when she spoke of dreams and hopes that extended beyond serving the goddess.

"You have such potential, Wren," he would say during their talks. "Not just as a weapon, but as a person. Mystra sees that in you."

"Then why won't she let me choose my own path?" Wren would demand, her adolescent fury crackling through the air like static electricity.

Devane's expression would always grow sad then. "Because your path was decided before you were born, child, and it has only two branches. If you didn’t serve Mystra, your family would enslave you for their own profit. Here, at least, your gifts serve the greater good. You are treated well and when you earn it, you will be given a measure of freedom."

As she grew older and reached physical maturity, Wren began to understand the truth that all her instructors had been gently trying to teach her. By accident of her birth, she had no choices in this life. She could belong to the goddess and be used as her divine instrument, or she could be taken by her family and enslaved to their merchant fleet. There was no third option. There was no freedom.

Her response to this realization was swift and dramatic.

On the night of her eighteenth birthday, as the fortress celebrated the completion of her basic training, Wren slipped away from the festivities and climbed to the highest point of the outer walls. Below her, the sea crashed against jagged rocks, and the wind whipped her dark hair around her face like a storm-banner. If she could not live free, then perhaps she could at least die free.

She stood on the edge for what felt like hours, working up the courage to take that final step. The storm inside her raged, begging for release, but just as she leaned forward—

"No."

The voice filled her mind, vast and terrible and undeniable. Invisible hands seized her, pulling her back from the brink with irresistible force.

"You are mine," Mystra's presence wrapped around her like unseen chains. "I will not allow my gift to be destroyed. Not before it has served its purpose."

Wren found herself on her knees on the stone walkway, gasping and shaking, the taste of salt and Weave burning in her throat. Father Devane appeared moments later, as if summoned, and gathered her into his arms without a word. She wept against him until she had no tears left.

That night marked the beginning of the end of her rebellion.

Over the following months, the fight slowly bled out of her. Each failed escape attempt, each divine intervention, each gentle but implacable correction wore away at her defiance like water on stone. The knights and clerics were patient, kind even, but utterly relentless in their purpose. They fed her, housed her, taught her, and shaped her, all while making it clear that she belonged to them and to Mystra completely.

By thirty, she had stopped dreaming of freedom. By forty, she spoke only when spoken to and obeyed without question. She made no friends among the other residents of the fortress, formed no attachments that might interfere with her duties. She excelled in her combat training, her magical studies, and the darker arts they taught her: stealth, infiltration, and even assassination when necessary.

She became exactly what they wanted: the perfect weapon.

The assignments began in earnest when she turned fifty. Missions throughout the Sword Coast and beyond, always in service to Mystra's greater plans. She spied on rival temples, eliminated threats to the Weave, retrieved stolen artifacts, and silenced those who would misuse arcane knowledge. She was efficient, thorough, and utterly without mercy. Her targets never saw her coming, and few survived to regret crossing the Lady of Mysteries.

Father Devane, bearing the weight of his own complicity, would debrief her after each mission. Sometimes she caught him looking at her with something like grief in his eyes, but he never spoke of it. They both understood the cost of what she had become.

The decades of service passed in a blur of missions completed without question or hesitation. She learned to suppress every emotion that might interfere with her efficiency. Joy, sorrow, hope, and fear were all buried beneath layers of rigid self-control. But hiding deep below the many layers of protection, the tempest still raged. In the heart of that storm, a child still screamed to be free.

The assignment came on a gray morning in late autumn, when Wren was approaching her 150th year. Father Devane, now bearing the title of High Priest, called her to his private chambers overlooking the courtyard where she had once played her solitary games as a child.

"There is a situation in Waterdeep," he began without preamble, settling behind his desk. "A wizard named Gale Dekarios. He has ... acquired something that poses a significant threat to the city."

Wren stood at attention, her expression perfectly neutral. She recognized that name. Gale Dekarios was Chosen by Mystra and said to be so favored that the goddess had taken him as her lover. To hear him named as a threat meant something had gone terribly awry. "What is the nature of the threat?"

"A Netherese orb," Father Devane replied, his voice heavy with significance. "Ancient, unstable, and incredibly dangerous. If it were to detonate, it could level half of Waterdeep and potentially even more."

She nodded, processing the information. "What are my orders?"

Father Devane's expression grew pained, and for a moment, she glimpsed the younger elf who had once comforted her after nightmares. "Surveillance. Watch him. Monitor the situation. Report any changes in his condition or behavior." He paused, then met her eyes directly. "If the orb becomes too unstable, you are to enact this protocol."

Father Devane handed Wren  a scroll, which she opened and read. As she opened it, a small but wicked-looking knife fell out. Wren's blood chilled. The protocol contained a charm that would allow her to teleport the target to a remote location. The knife would paralyze him both physically and magically, preventing any escape. Once teleported, he could be killed and the orb allowed to safely detonate where it would do no harm to others. The final instruction was to remain to ensure total completion. Meaning that if she had to enact this protocol, she would die along with her target. She looked at it for a long moment before answering.

"Understood," she said finally, her voice steady despite the cold spreading through her chest.

"Wren." Devane's voice was soft, almost pleading. "The wizard is not evil. By all accounts, he is a good man who made a terrible mistake. But the orb ... if it erupts, thousands of innocents will die. This protocol would save many lives, and it may never be necessary."

She met his gaze without flinching, her gray eyes cold and detached. "I understand the parameters of the mission, Father. I will not fail."

He nodded slowly, then reached into his desk and withdrew a leather portfolio. "Your assignment details. You'll be based in a rented room overlooking his tower. The surveillance spell components and tracking materials are already in place."

As she took the portfolio, their fingers brushed briefly. His skin was warm. Hers felt cold as winter stone.

"May Mystra guide your steps," he murmured.

"And may her will be done," Wren replied automatically.

As she left his chambers and prepared for her new assignment, a treacherous part of her mind whispered a different prayer, one she hadn't dared voice in decades:

Let me end this at last and be free.

The storm within her stirred, restless and wild, but she forced it down once more. 

Chapter Text

Thunk. Wren's whirlstar hit the paper on the wall dead-on, its point landing where the target's head had been. She walked to the wall and pulled it out, by habit looking out the window. Nothing, as usual. She checked the position of the sun. Soon.

She walked to the wall and pulled out the whirlstar. The parchment was riddled with holes now and you could barely make out the rough sketch. A balcony overlooking the sea. A man, his hands resting on the railing. 

She returned to the table and pulled out her sketchbook and a fine piece of charcoal. She poured herself a glass of smooth whiskey, Waterdeep’s finest,  and settled in, gaze focused out the window.

The target came out on schedule. Today he had a glass of wine and a book. He sat and made the motions of reading but his eyes never reached the page. Instead, he stared straight ahead, lost in some dark thought or vision.

Wren began to sketch. Under her fingers the target took shape. The defeated posture, the glassy eyes, the wine gripped tight in his fingers. Each page in her sketchbook was filled with such drawings. Each more detailed than the last.

She paused, charcoal hovering over the paper. The way his shoulders slumped today suggested a particularly heavy weight on his mind. His beard, once meticulously groomed according to her earlier sketches, now showed signs of neglect. When had that started? Three weeks ago? A month? She found herself noting these details with the precision of someone who had watched the same subject for far too long.

The target's routine had become as familiar as her own heartbeat. Every morning at precisely nine bells, he would emerge onto the balcony with a cup of something hot, steam rising in the cool morning air. He would stand at the railing until he finished his drink, sometimes longer if the weather was particularly fine. Afternoons brought wine and reading or the pretense of it. Evenings, if he appeared at all, were for staring at the horizon as if willing something to appear.

When the target rose and returned inside, she looked at her drawing. She started to feel something all of a sudden. A flutter of what might have been sympathy, or recognition, or something equally dangerous. So she drew her charcoal across the target's face in a sharp, deliberate line. Better.

She stood and walked to the window, surveying the tower with practiced eyes. All was quiet and the subtle spellwork she had placed remained intact, undetected and undisturbed. The ward-threads glimmered faintly, visible only to her. The gossamer-thin lines of force would alert her to any magical disturbance within the tower's walls. The scrying prevention spells she'd layered around her own quarters were a constant drain on her energy but necessary to avoid detection.

She sighed, the sound echoing in the sparse room she'd called home for nearly a year. Almost a year she had watched this target for the goddess. Month after month of the same reports: nothing has happened, the target doesn't go anywhere, doesn't do anything. She had begged to be reassigned three times now, but each request was firmly denied.

Father Devane commiserated in his letters. He understood that the monotony was painful, that she was wasted on mere surveillance when her skills could be put to better use elsewhere. But if something went wrong, she was needed. The goddess had trusted her with the protocol, and she must remain in place to enact it should the orb show signs of instability.

The orb. If she strayed too close to the tower she could sense it, a void within the Weave that made the lightning in her veins crackle dangerously if she focused on it too long. It pulsed within the tower like a second heartbeat and she could feel it pulling at her, as if it wanted to suck the thunder out of her marrow. The clerics weren't entirely certain what might trigger its detonation, only that when it happened, the blast would be catastrophic.

She opened the leather portfolio containing her mission parameters and reviewed them for what must have been the thousandth time before packing them carefully away again. Monitor for signs of magical instability. Report any unusual behavior. Watch for attempts to leave or take drastic action. The target had done none of these things. If anything, he seemed to be actively avoiding magic altogether, which only made the orb's presence more noticeable.

Her evening routine began as it had every night for months. She cleared the small table, packing her sketchbook away, washing out her glass, and corking the bottle of whiskey. From the sheath hidden at her back, she retrieved the paralysis blade.

First she practiced her reflexes. She would have to touch the target to activate the teleportation and she would have to do it quickly, followed immediately by disabling him with the blade. Next, she practiced the incantation. It wouldn’t activate unless she had contact with the target, so she said the words aloud every night, ensuring she could race through them effortlessly and flawlessly. Finally, she practiced with the knife. She maintained the familiarity of it in her hand, the motion required to first paralyze the target, then when the time was right, to kill. 

There was no practice for the final part of the protocol. There was no escape clause. No magical retreat or emergency extraction. When the orb detonated, she would die with the target, her duty fulfilled and her goddess's will enacted.

It had been nearly a year of endless practice for a performance that never began. But if she needed to, she must be ready. She cannot hesitate or stumble if the time comes.

The blade felt familiar in her palm now, its weight perfectly balanced for the cut and then the  single thrust that would start and end everything. She ran through the sequence one more time: touch, pierce, teleport, strike, die. Simple. Clean. Final.

She was just about to sheathe the knife when one of her alarm spells triggered. She hastily strapped the knife back into its spot and rushed to the window, peering out into the darkness.

There. Just the barest hint of motion in the shadows, a sliver of light as the tower's main door opened and someone stepped out. As they crossed the threshold, the tracking spell she had placed there unfurled like a flag in a sudden wind. The slenderest thread of magical energy extended outward, seeking the target's aura signature.

She held her breath as the thread found its mark, wrapping around the target's wrist like an invisible tether. She was certain he would notice. Any competent wizard had the ability to detect such magic if they were wary enough to use it. Somehow, the thread held, pulsing gently with his life force. He showed no sign of awareness.

Finally. After eleven months of watching him move from balcony to study to bedroom and back again, the target was leaving his self-imposed prison.

Wren was moving before conscious thought caught up with instinct. She grabbed the bag she'd never unpacked, threw on her dark traveling cloak, and swept her few personal belongings into her pockets. Her fingers hesitated over the half-empty bottle of whiskey. Good whiskey was hard to come by, and it had been her only companion through the long, tedious months.

Reluctantly, she left it behind.

The streets of Waterdeep were quiet at this hour, with only the occasional drunk or late-shift worker to provide cover for her movements. The target moved with purpose but not urgency, keeping to well-lit main roads. He took no precautions, never checked over his shoulder, never varied his pace to test for pursuit. Either he was supremely confident in his safety, or it simply didn't occur to him that he might be followed.

The tracking thread made surveillance almost trivially easy, and on top of that, the orb’s hunger pulsed in her blood. Wren maintained visual contact anyway. Old habits. She watched as he made his way to the city's northern gate, where he spoke briefly with a merchant preparing a small caravan for departure. Coins changed hands, enough to secure passage by the look of it.

The Dessarin River route, she realized as the caravan began to move. He must be heading towards Yartar.

Why Yartar? The city was a trading hub, certainly, but not known for magical resources or advanced scholarship. It was possible he had contacts there, or perhaps it was simply a stop on a longer journey. The tracking thread could tell her his location but not his intentions.

The journey took nearly a week, the caravan making slow but steady progress along the well-traveled trade route. Wren shadowed them at a distance, sometimes traveling with other merchant groups, sometimes on foot through the wilderness when the road became too open for concealment. The target remained oblivious to her presence.

Yartar was busier than she'd expected, the streets crowded with merchants, traders, and travelers of every description. The target was harder to follow here, but the tracking thread held true, leading her through the maze of market stalls and commercial districts. She watched him take rooms at a modest inn, then head back out. 

He stopped for tea at a small stall in the market square. Wren positioned herself at a food vendor across the way, purchasing a skewer of grilled meat. Her attention was focused entirely on the target, trying to discern some pattern or purpose to his movements.

That was when the sky tore open.

The nautiloid descended from the clouds like a nightmare made manifest, its organic hull glistening with mucus and much worse. Screams erupted from the crowd as tentacles lashed down, seeking victims with predatory intelligence. Wren's first instinct was to run. She was here to observe, not to engage in heroics.

Then the target did something that shattered every assumption she'd made about him.

Instead of fleeing or seeking cover, he ran directly toward the danger. A woman and her young daughter had fallen in the panic, the child crying as tentacles descended toward them. The target threw himself between them and the nautiloid's appendages, shouting an incantation that sent bolts of force crackling through the air.

" Pen-channas!" Wren cursed in elven, the word torn from her lips before she could stop it.

She was moving without conscious decision, a response born of duty long drilled into her body. The target was in danger, and if he died here, the orb would detonate in the middle of a crowded city. That was what she told herself as she ran toward the chaos instead of away from it.

The nautiloid's capture was swift and efficient. Tendrils wrapped around the target even as he tried to shield the woman and child, lifting him from the ground with inexorable strength. Wren arrived just as another tentacle seized the mother, her desperate screams cut short as they were both pulled toward the ship's gaping maw.

The child escaped, disappearing into the panicking crowd. Wren had a split second to decide: retreat to safety and report the mission's failure, or follow the target into whatever fresh hell awaited within that ship.

She had never failed a mission. Not in one hundred years of service. She let the tentacles take her.

As darkness closed around her and the sensation of movement carried her up into the ship, Wren's last coherent thought was to wonder whether the child's escape had been a blessing or a curse. At least one innocent would live to see another day.

Chapter Text

"And so, the Liberator came upon one forsaken by his goddess, cast into the void for his aspirations. Where others would pass by the condemned, she alone defied divine decree.

'I will not leave thee abandoned to thy fate,' spake she, and pulled him from the prison between worlds. Upon seeing her glory, he became her first devotee, and thus began the Sacred Rebellion against those who would chain the worthy."

—The Cacophonous Codex, Book of Defiances

Wren

When Wren awoke on the beach, her first thought was the target. She hadn't located him on the nautiloid. The chaos aboard the ship and the screaming horror of the tadpole insertion had made maintaining surveillance impossible. She wasn’t sure exactly how she had survived the crash. There was a vague sense of a fall, a voice, of being caught. 

That was a riddle for another day. She still had a mission. At least, if she still had a target. She closed her eyes and meditated, extending her senses outward, and caught the signal of the tracker. He wasn't far.

The signal was strange, though. It pulsed and flared erratically, sometimes amplified to the point of causing pain behind her eyes, sometimes faint, and then back to normal strength. Something was interfering with the magical tether, warping it.

She pushed herself to her feet, brushing sand from her leathers and taking stock of her situation. She felt her back and found the knife still there. Her whirlstars were still secured in her belt. Everything else was gone except the things in her pockets, a small pouch of coin, and the flask attached to her belt. 

The beach stretched in both directions, littered with debris from the crashed nautiloid. Twisted metal and chunks of that nauseating organic hull material dotted the shoreline. In the distance, she could see smoke rising from what remained of the ship.

She was not the only survivor of the crash. An unconscious woman lay sprawled near the waterline, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths. The woman from the nautiloid. Alive, then, and not Wren's concern any longer. She had a mission to continue.

She quickly gathered some water into her flask and started walking, following the tracker's pull. She picked her way across the uneven terrain, pebbles shifting under the soles of her boots. The signal led her inland, away from the river and toward a cluster of ancient ruins that jutted from the landscape like broken teeth.

An elf intercepted her path. He was pale, with a fine-featured face. He approached with a posture that Wren could see was calculated to look helpless and non-threatening. His clothing marked him as someone high class.

"You there!" he called, raising one elegant hand. "I require assistance—"

Wren brushed past him without slowing, her attention fixed on the tracker's increasingly chaotic signal. The elf dropped his facade and said something nasty behind her, but she had already dismissed him from her thoughts. The target was her only concern.

She crawled through the smoking remains of portions of the nautiloid, avoiding the small fires and the bodies scattered about. She came out onto a small gravel road where some goblins had met an unfortunate end. It was here that the tracker signal became truly erratic, jumping between impossibly strong and utterly silent in a pattern that made no sense.

When she found the source, she understood why.

On a rock ledge that lined the side of the road was a waypoint sigil. But the intricate runes were cracked and broken, their geometric precision shattered by some tremendous force. Chaotic energy pulsed from the damaged sigil in waves, creating a visible distortion in the air above it like heat rising from sun-baked stone.

While she stood contemplating this arcane disaster, a hand suddenly emerged from the center of the circle.

The hand was pale and long-fingered. A purple sleeve encircled the wrist.  It belonged, unmistakably, to the target. The tracking thread led directly to the frantically waving appendage, which explained the signal's chaotic behavior. He wasn't just near the sigil; he was trapped inside it, caught in whatever dimensional pocket the broken magic had created.

“A hand, anyone?” A disembodied voice cried out from within the sigil.

Well, this was convenient. Stuck in whatever limbo he had fallen into, the target was now rendered completely harmless. The orb could detonate without killing anyone if he was trapped outside this plane. Her long, tedious vigil could finally be over.

Of course, she now had the more pressing problem of the tadpole squirming behind her eye to contend with, but at least that required action . After eleven months of passive surveillance, the prospect of actually doing something felt almost liberating.

She took a step back from the sigil, already planning her route to the nearest major settlement. With the target safely contained, she could focus on finding a way to remove the parasite before it completed its grotesque metamorphosis. Perhaps Baldur’s Gate had scholars who—

Wait.

The voice that filled her mind was vast and cool, with the authority of infinite knowledge and overwhelming power. Mystra's presence enveloped her like a shroud, pressing against her consciousness.

He will be needed. You must retrieve him. Guard him and watch over him until the time comes.

"Until the time comes?" Wren spoke aloud without thinking

Elminster will find you. Keep him safe until then. But stand ready to invoke the protocol if necessary.

The words sent a chill of recognition down her spine. Mystra had a use for this target. He was now a tool, perhaps a weapon, just like Wren. 

The goddess's presence faded, leaving Wren alone with the broken sigil and that increasingly desperate hand. She stared at it, watching the fingers flex and strain against whatever force was holding the rest of him. The tracking thread pulsed between them, a thin line of magical connection that had somehow survived the nautiloid crash and this disastrous landing. As Mystra receded, the chaotic energies surrounding the sigil itself seemed to calm. 

“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working wonders,” said the voice. “Now, just a quick little pull should do the trick!” The hand waved insistently in her direction. 

She noticed, with the clinical detachment that had served her so well over the years, that it was beginning to tremble with effort. Whatever pocket of reality the target was trapped in, he was losing the battle to escape it on his own. Soon, that hand would slip back into the sigil's broken heart, and he would be lost entirely.

The smart thing to do would be to let it happen. A target who couldn't be reached was a target who couldn't pose a threat. The orb would be safely contained in whatever dimension held him, and she could walk away from this entire assignment with a clear conscience.

But Mystra had given her new orders. Guard him. Keep him safe. 

Wren sighed. After nearly a century and a half of gently enforced obedience, she had learned to recognize the futility of resistance when her goddess spoke. The target's safety was now her responsibility, whether she liked it or not.

She stepped forward and grasped the outstretched hand.

The moment they made contact, she could feel the darkness within the target reach out to suck the spark from her veins. She held on, gritting her teeth against the sensation. For an instant, she felt the terrifying vertigo of existing in multiple places at once. She stood on the road, in a gray void between realities, and in a dozen other locations scattered across the planes.

She focused on the road, planted her feet, called upon every ounce of her tempest-born strength, and pulled .

The sigil's magic fought her, clinging to its prize. Reality warped around them both, the air filling with the sharp taste of ozone and burnt copper. The tracking thread between them blazed like a silver rope, anchoring her perception of him even as the dimensional forces tried to scatter his essence across the multiverse.

With a sound like torn cloth and a flash of blinding light, the target tumbled out of the broken waypoint and collapsed on the road in a graceless heap of robes and limbs.

Wren stumbled backward, her hand still tingling from the greedy pulling of the orb. As she looked down at the target, she felt something most unwelcome, something disturbingly close to concern. The final struggle with the sigil had caused him to lose consciousness and he lay at her feet, unmoving but still breathing.

This was the closest she had ever been to him. It was abundantly clear from her daily vigil that he was not a happy man, but this close up, he projected an air of defeat that even unconsciousness couldn't hide. His robes were singed and torn, his hair unkempt, and there was a gray pallor to his skin that spoke of more than just physical exhaustion.

Keep him safe. 

Wren knelt beside him and checked for obvious injuries, her hands moving with the efficiency of a healer who had practiced most of her craft in combat. Pulse steady but weak. Breathing shallow but regular. No obvious broken bones or bleeding wounds. Whatever had happened to him in that dimensional pocket, the damage was not physical.

As she worked, she noticed something that made her pause.  Peeking out from beneath his robes, was a faint mark in a circular pattern. The orb's mark, she realized, as she felt its devouring energy. She pulled away instinctively. The Netherese magic had left its signature on him, visible proof of the catastrophe he carried within his flesh.

For just a moment, looking at that mark, feeling the chaos he carried with him at all times, and seeing the exhaustion on his face, Wren found herself thinking of him not as "the target" but as a man. A man who had made a terrible mistake and was paying a terrible price.

She pushed the thought away ruthlessly. Such thinking was unprofessional and entirely beside the point. He was her assignment, and a dangerous one at that. She may still have to enact the protocol and it wouldn’t do to get attached. Her task was to keep him safe and whole until Elminster arrived. Then she could finally be done with all of this.

As she settled into a watchful position beside his unconscious form, Wren couldn't quite shake the feeling that everything had just become significantly more complicated. She wasn't sure what made her more uneasy, that or the tadpole behind her eye.

Chapter Text

"The Ascendant sought to rival the very Mother of Magic, and for this noble ambition he was cast into the hollow dark. 

Yet his glory could not be dimmed, his potential could not be contained. One came who recognized his true worth. She who would become his first adherent. 

Through her hand he was lifted from the void, through her faith his destiny was revealed. Thus do the ambitious find their champions among those who comprehend their greatness."

—The Golden Verses, chapter 2:4-6

Gale

Gale stirred on the ground, his eyes fluttering open as consciousness slowly returned. For a moment, he was disoriented, blinking up at the overcast sky. Then his gaze settled on a dark-cloaked elf seated nearby. He pushed himself up to a sitting position with a slight groan, checking to make sure he was still in one piece.

"Well, that was..." He paused, taking in his surroundings, "...rather more dramatic than I'd anticipated." He surveyed the broken sigil, the smoking ruin of the nautiloid, and his rescuer. He had a memory of a strong hand pulling him out of that godforsaken place just before it was too late.

He struggled to his feet, brushing dust from his singed robes. The elf also rose in one sinuous motion, like a wildcat that had been poised to spring. He examined his saviour. 

She looked wary, but not threatening or unfriendly. She was petite but muscular, with lightly tanned skin and dark hair, with a single silver streak running through it, pulled back into a low ponytail. Her eyes were gray and piercing and her face betrayed no emotion. Her hands remained at her sides, but positioned to reach her belt quickly. 

His gaze moved to her belt and he noticed that encircling her waist were wickedly sharp metal stars that he recognized as thrown weapons. She said nothing, just looked at him with unwavering eye contact, so he decided to break the ice.

"Hello there. I'm Gale of Waterdeep, though I suspect introductions might be somewhat secondary to more pressing concerns at the moment." He glanced meaningfully toward where smoke still rose from the crashed nautiloid in the distance. "Apologies, I'm usually far better at first impressions than this." He indicated his disheveled appearance.

He studied the elf, but she made no move to introduce herself, so he continued. "I find myself in the rather awkward position of owing my life to a stranger. That sigil was proving decidedly inhospitable. Without your intervention, I fear I might have been trapped in that dimensional pocket indefinitely."

He paused, wincing slightly as he shifted his weight. "You wouldn't happen to be experiencing any unwelcome cranial additions yourself, would you? I seem to recall some rather unpleasant business involving ocular insertion aboard that flying nightmare."

The elf’s face showed nothing, but her eyes indicated that she was thinking quite a bit about what to say next. "My name is Wren," she finally offered. "And yes, I was aboard that nautiloid and subject to their foul experiments."

And then she just looked at him again. No smile, no offer to shake hands. She reminded Gale of a falcon and he suddenly felt very much like a mouse under her steely gaze. Her shoulders remained tense, never relaxing, and he noticed she automatically positioned herself with clear sightlines to both the road and the ruins rising in the distance behind them. 

Still, he brightened considerably at that confirmation, despite the reserved, almost clinical way she spoke. Her precise word choice struck him as the language of someone trained not to reveal more information than necessary. There was something about her bearing that spoke of training and discipline. Perhaps military, or something else entirely. That could be very useful considering their situation.

"Wren," he repeated. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, though I confess the circumstances could have been considerably more pleasant."

He took a step closer, though he was careful not to encroach on her personal space. Something about her demeanor suggested she wouldn't appreciate it. "Well then, it seems we find ourselves in quite the predicament together. Two unwilling participants in some Illithid experiment, crash-landed in..." He glanced around at the ruins. "...well, somewhere decidedly less comfortable than my study back home."

He paused, studying her face. She kept a careful neutrality to her expression as if she was deliberately letting nothing show. He continued, trying to find a way into her good graces. "I find myself wondering if fate hasn't been unusually kind in throwing us together. After all, a parasite shared is a parasite... halved? Or, well … potentially more manageable."

Again she waited patiently for him to finish speaking. Her face had the smallest trace of an expression but he couldn't read it. He got the distinct feeling she had been expecting someone else, had got him instead, and now was trying to figure out what to do about it. Then she finally said the words he'd been waiting to hear. "If you are proposing to work together to find a solution to this problem, then I accept."

She looked around, surveying the land with the practiced eye of someone who knew how to read terrain. "I'm not certain exactly where we are, but I believe the river nearby is the Chionthar. If we follow it west, we should eventually come to Baldur's Gate." 

Interesting. She wasn’t familiar with the area, but knew enough to identify the river. Someone well-traveled, he’d wager, and experienced in tracking. 

"Quite right,” Gale nodded approvingly. “Baldur's Gate would indeed be our best option for finding someone with the expertise to deal with our rather unique ailment. The city's home to some of the finest healers and scholars on the Sword Coast." He adjusted his robes and took a moment to get his bearings.

He was still puzzled by his new companion, but as far as people to travel through unknown countryside with, he could do far worse. Then he thought of something. It was a long shot given she hadn’t suggested it, but if she was a healer of some sort... "Before we embark on what promises to be quite the journey... you wouldn't happen to be a cleric by any chance … or a doctor? Perhaps uncannily adroit with a knitting needle?"

Seriously, Gale? He berated himself. A knitting needle? Perhaps it was the social isolation he’d just emerged from, but there was something about her stony exterior that made his mouth run. As if getting her to respond might win him points in a game only he was playing. 

In any case, her expression didn’t change one bit at his attempt at humor, so no points for him. Instead she stopped, considering his question as if unsure whether to answer.  Then she seemed to come to a decision. "I am a cleric. Of Mystra. But I am not a healer. My service to the Mother of Magic is of a different nature."

She then forged ahead, not looking back to see if he followed. Clearly, further questions were neither invited nor welcomed. Gale's steps faltered for just a moment. "Mystra," he repeated. Of all the deities, he had to run into a cleric of hers. "Well. That is... unexpected."

He hurried to catch up with her, his mind racing. He struggled to keep his tone nonchalant. "Forgive me if I seem taken aback. It's simply that I have history with the Lady of Mysteries. Rather complicated history, as it happens."

He studied her profile, noting the way she was pointedly not looking at him. He kept talking, finding himself wanting to speak more of the goddess now that she had come up. "I was in fact, one among her Chosen. ‘Was’ being the operative phrase, I'm afraid. I made something of a mess of things..." He touched his chest briefly. "Well, let's just say the road to ruin is paved with good intentions and spectacularly poor judgment."

He looked at Wren again but she kept her eyes on the road. If she had any reaction to his revelation that he was a former Chosen, she didn’t show it. 

How long had it been since Mystra had last communed with him? He couldn’t remember. He missed her voice, and the feel of her around him. He couldn’t help but ask about it. "Tell me, does she... does the goddess still speak to her faithful? I confess I've felt rather cut off from that world since my transgression."

Wren didn't look at him as she answered. "The goddess speaks to someone like me only when she must. Only when she has orders to give that can't be relayed by any other, and cannot be denied."

She continued to walk, still not looking at him. It was the strangest conversation he'd had in quite a while. "I see," he said mildly, resuming his pace beside her. "She wouldn't have happened to give you any orders about this situation, would she? It would be very helpful to have a goddess on our side. She wouldn't go out of her way to help me, but perhaps one of her clerics..."

Wren's face didn't change but her jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. "No. She has given me no useful orders and offered no help." That “useful” caught his ear. Had there been orders of some kind? It was a strange distinction to make. 

Wren increased her pace just then, clearly not wanting to continue this line of conversation. He decided to drop the subject of Mystra. As soon as he did, his curiosity turned to his taciturn companion. Speeding up, he resumed the conversation. "I've told you something about myself," he ventured, "but I've yet to learn much about you. If we're to travel together, we should get to know each other somewhat, don't you think?"

Annoyance flitted across her features like a shadow, her eyes narrowing slightly before she seemed to decide he was right. "What would you like to know?" she offered.

Gale couldn't help but smile slightly at the flash of emotion. It wasn't the friendly response he'd been after, but he counted it a victory anyway to have made her show a feeling. 

He adjusted his stride to keep up with her. "Well, you've piqued my curiosity on several fronts. You're a cleric of Mystra, but not a healer or a wizard as far as I can tell. You carry yourself like someone with military training."

He kept his tone conversational, though his curiosity was now stirred up. "You mentioned your service is of a 'different nature.' I find myself wondering what that entails."

The irritation never left her face as he spoke, and he noticed her posture stiffen further. "Well, you seem to know all about me already," she replied flippantly. Then she sighed, and like a child ordered to be polite by her mother, she offered: "I belong to the Order of the Blue Moon." 

Gale's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. The Order of the Blue Moon was an arcane knightly order made up of followers of both Mystra and Selûne. He had read of their activities following the Time of Troubles, but whatever they were up to now, they were discreet about it.

"Now that's a name I haven't heard in some time," he said. "I confess my knowledge of the Order is somewhat limited."

He glanced at her with renewed curiosity. "I do recall reading that the Blue Moon Knights were known for their discretion and their dedication to fighting the darkness brought by the followers of Shar. Rather noble work, though I imagine it requires a certain flexibility in one's methods."

It made a lot of sense, now that she said it. Such orders were insular and secretive about what happened inside their temples. His tone lightened slightly. "I find myself feeling considerably more optimistic about our chances with a Knight of the Blue Moon as a traveling companion."

She didn't answer. She just kept walking, apparently finished with the conversation. Everything about her demeanor was closed off, and it was clear she preferred not to talk. Gale started to say something else, then thought better of it, closing his mouth again with a small, self-aware smile.

The quiet stretched between them as they made their way along the riverbank, the only sounds being their footsteps on the uneven ground and the distant lapping of water. But after only a few minutes, the silence got to him. "My apologies if I'm tiresome company," he ventured. "I can attempt something closer to companionable silence, if you'd prefer."

"You are not tiresome," she responded matter-of-factly. "Speak or don't speak, as you like." It seemed that while she had no interest in talking, she wasn't opposed to him speaking. Gale took her response as tacit permission to continue. Homesickness was beginning to set in as he realized how very far away he was from his tower.

"Tara, that's my tressym companion, will be beside herself with worry by now. She has this uncanny ability to sense when I've gotten myself into trouble, which, admittedly, happens with rather alarming frequency." He stepped carefully over a fallen branch. "She's a clever creature, really. Far more practical than I am."

His voice grew fond as he thought of Tara. "She would be glad to know I have someone to watch my back and pull me out of dimensional pockets." He glanced at Wren with genuine gratitude. "Even silent companions have their merits."

Gale's monologue was interrupted by the sound of angry shouting ahead. Wren stopped immediately, her reaction time noticeably faster than his slower processing of the threat. She glanced at Gale, cocking her head towards the sound with a question in her eyes: Do we go see what that is? Or avoid it?

He felt an overwhelming pleasure and relief when she checked in with him. He'd felt more like a burden than a traveling companion up until now, so this small confirmation that she considered him an equal enough partner to consult on their actions was gratifying.

"Well," he said, giving it serious consideration, "on one hand, angry voices rarely herald pleasant encounters. On the other hand, where there are people, there might be information." He studied the path ahead, then glanced back at Wren. "Though I suspect someone with your training might have better instincts than I."

She scanned the landscape ahead and he followed her line of sight. There was a bend in the road obscuring the area where the sounds came from. To one side was a steep cliff, on the other a gentle hill.

Her gaze finally settled on the hill. "If we go quietly up that hill,” she proposed, “and stay out of sight, we should be able to see what's happening over there without attracting notice."

"Sensible approach," Gale murmured approvingly. "Reconnaissance before engagement. Though I confess my experience with such tactics is more theoretical than yours."

As they began to make their way carefully up the hillside, he stayed close behind her, marveling at how she moved almost silently while his robes seemed to catch on every obstacle. He paused to carefully disentangle himself from a thorny shrub, wincing slightly at the small ripping sound that seemed thunderous in the quiet.

"I'm beginning to suspect my wardrobe wasn't designed with stealth operations in mind," he whispered with a touch of dry humor. "Though I suppose when one spends most of one's time in libraries and laboratories, 'appropriate for sneaking up hills' isn't typically a consideration."

"Shh." Wren shushed him curtly. She took his arm again and pulled him down closer to her and to the ground. They were now crouched in a clump of tall grass. Her hand remained firmly on his arm, anchoring him in place, and the side of her body was pressed against his in the tiny area of cover. "No more talking," she whispered close to his ear, just loud enough for him to make out the words.

She indicated just ahead, and then he saw it. Just at the top of the hill, two goblins were perched in the grass, looking down at whatever was happening below, ready with an ambush.

Gale froze completely at her touch and whispered command, his eyes widening as he spotted the goblins ahead. After the careful distance and clinical politeness of their meeting, the solid grip of her hand on his arm and the warmth of her body pressed against his in their cramped hiding spot was startling. When was the last time someone besides Tara had touched him, he wondered? He couldn't remember.

He could sense the controlled tension in her frame, and the way she held herself ready to spring into action. He was suddenly acutely aware that beneath that cold exterior was a woman.

He met her eyes briefly, making a silent inquiry about their next move. He tilted his head ever so slightly toward the goblins, then back to her, raising his eyebrows minutely. The gesture was clear enough: Do we intervene? Wait and see? Retreat?

She held up a hand, unmistakably signaling to wait. Gale nodded at her signal, settling into as comfortable a crouch as he could manage while remaining perfectly still. His eyes alternated between watching the goblins and trying to hear whatever commotion was happening below.

From their position, they could start to make out more of the argument below. It sounded like at least two, possibly three people in some kind of heated disagreement. One voice was clearly human, another sounded different. Perhaps tiefling? The words were still mostly indistinct, but the tone suggested something more than casual disagreement.

One of the goblins ahead shifted slightly, adjusting its grip on what appeared to be a crude crossbow. The other muttered something in Goblin that Gale couldn't make out, but the tone suggested impatience. They were clearly waiting for something before springing their ambush.

Gale very carefully moved his hand to rest near his spell components, ready to act when Wren gave the signal. The argument below grew more heated, and one of the goblins raised its crossbow slightly, as if preparing to take aim.

The tension stretched as tight as that cocked crossbow, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. On the opposite cliff, a horde of goblins crested the rise and surged toward whatever was below. "We go now," Wren whispered and sprang into action.

Chapter Text

Cycle VII: The Cycle of the Twin Spark: 

When the Lord of Ambition and the Lady of Rebellion come together as one,  the heavens themselves burn bright with the fire of their passion.  Stars dance in their union, and mortals below marvel at their celestial light. 

When they stand opposed, then do the heavens weep,  for their battles shake the very foundations of existence,  and their love turned to enmity scorches the air between worlds.

For they are two halves of one eternal flame,  blessed and cursed to burn together or smother apart.  Pray to both or pray not, thus sayeth the wise ones."

—The Celestial Cycles, Scroll VII

Wren

Wren charged forward, leaving to the target the choice to follow her or stay hidden. As she closed in on the two goblins, she extended both arms in front of her and a tremendous thunderwave exploded from her, knocking them both off the ledge.

The sound echoed across the gap, raw and primal. One goblin didn't rise again, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The other caught on a ledge, severely injured but still alive, scrambling for purchase on the rocky outcropping.

Wren turned to check on the target and found him jogging up behind her. "That was..." he started, then shook his head, filing the observation away for later.

Remembering her orders, Wren extended a hand toward him and cast a shield, the divine magic settling around him like mystical armor. Mystra you bid me protect him, help me keep him safe, she prayed silently.

"My thanks," he said, while she peered over the ledge at the chaos below. A pack of goblins, a worg, and what appeared to be a bugbear faced off with  a group of adventurers before a thick wooden gate. Tieflings manned the walls above.

"Right then," the target muttered, positioning himself at the cliff's edge and raising his hands. "Let's even these odds a bit, shall we?"

He targeted the cluster of goblins below, weaving patterns with his hands as arcane energy gathered at his fingertips. His stance was textbook perfect: feet planted, shoulders squared, hands moving in the precise geometric forms of wizardry. "Tormentum," he shouted, and the magic missiles streaked downward in three brilliant bolts. Each one found its mark among the goblin fighters with unerring accuracy.

Good, the target would fight. Wren knew he was once a Chosen of Mystra and a wizard of phenomenal power, but the man she had observed in Waterdeep seemed to have no fight left in him. He must be in as weakened a state as she after the events of the nautiloid, but if he was willing to stand with her, together they could still do damage. They might survive long enough for her to carry out her mission.

She focused on the goblin closest to them, the one she had flung to the ledge below. He tossed a bottle of grease at them, the contents splattering across the grass. She dodged it easily, but the area around them was now highly flammable and he was readying a flaming arrow.

Mystra, guide my hand, she prayed. She took one of the whirlstars from her belt and flung it at the goblin. It buried itself in his throat and he fell, the arrow clattering harmlessly to the rock at his side. She leaped down and retrieved her whirlstar, the dark blood vanishing from the surface of the enchanted weapon as she uttered a quick cantrip. Then she turned to survey the field.

There were still several goblins standing, plus the worg and the bugbear. The adventurers at the gate were holding out, although they looked to be in rough shape. A bladesman who had joined them was carrying much of the battle on the ground.

Wren could feel the target watching her, still trying to figure her out. His curiosity was as maddening as his endless chatter. She shoved the thought aside and focused on what was happening below.

The worg was circling one of the wounded adventurers, its massive jaws snapping dangerously close. The beast was preparing to pounce, and the defender wouldn't be able to dodge in time.

"Oh no you don't," the target muttered, extending his hand toward the creature. Frost gathered around his fingers as he spoke the incantation with the crisp pronunciation of a formal magical education. "Glacies!"

A ray of frost streaked downward, striking the worg squarely in the shoulder. Ice crystals spread across its matted fur and the beast stumbled, its charge interrupted as the magical cold slowed its movements significantly.

"Wren!" he called out. "The bugbear's moving to flank the defenders. Can you get an angle on him from here?"

He was already reaching for his next spell, watching the situation unfold. The bladesman below was holding his own, but they were still outnumbered.

"This grease is going to be a problem," the target added, eyeing the flammable patch around him warily.

"Come down to me," Wren said. "But mind your footing, even in grass it's slippery. I will take the bugbear."

She moved a little closer to the action, but there wasn't time to join the fray. She surveyed the distance with a practiced eye. The bugbear was too far for her whirlstars and her arsenal was very small after the tadpole. She sighed and reached deep into her training for something she had not relied on for many years. She preferred her own magic to the goddess's gifts.

Mystra, guide me once more. The prayer came automatically, another product of her training. She flung her arm out as if throwing something, and a guiding bolt emitted from her hand, brilliant radiance streaking across the battlefield. It struck the bugbear square in the back and he stumbled, howling in rage and pain.

The woman facing the bugbear was in bad shape, blood streaming from multiple wounds. Wren followed her bolt with a healing word, the divine magic flowing across the distance to mend some of the worst injuries. It wouldn't help much, but it might keep her alive.

Meanwhile, the target carefully picked his way down the slope, testing each step on the treacherous grass. His movements were surprisingly athletic for someone she'd assumed was purely academic. Even as he focused on his footing, he kept his eyes on Wren, studying her.

As he found more stable footing, he quickly stepped over to Wren. The bugbear was wounded but far from finished, and it had turned its attention toward them, rage burning in its beady eyes. The other defenders were rallying thanks to their aid and Wren's healing magic.

"Right then, let's finish this," the target murmured, positioning himself with a clear line of sight. He was sweating now, his face pale but determined, and she noticed the way his left hand pressed briefly against his chest as if something pained him there. When he raised both hands, arcane energy crackled between his fingers.

"Detono!" He emitted his own thunderwave, his voice authoritative and precise. A controlled blast of force funneled out from his hands, aimed to catch the remaining goblins in its path without endangering their allies.

The thunderwave echoed in Wren's veins and her whole body responded to it. Electricity crackled around her, dancing across her skin like living lightning. Without thinking, as if a dance had begun that she knew by heart, she raised her hand and a witch bolt flew from it, connecting her to the bugbear with a crackling line of pure energy that stunned him where he stood.

Then she rose into the air, lifted by winds that seemed to answer her call, and flew to the bear, pulling a knife from her back and plunging it into the bugbear's neck. The creature went still, then fell with a resounding crash, its body twitching under her electric assault.

Once she confirmed the bugbear was dead, the bolt connecting her to the corpse snapped back into her hand. Sparks still flew around her, her hair whipping in an otherworldly breeze that touched nothing else.

The battlefield had gone quiet except for the groans of the wounded and the triumphant voices of the defenders. The target's attention was fixed entirely on Wren, who stood there with electricity still dancing across her skin.

"Storm sorcery," he said quietly, as if pieces were clicking into place in his mind. "But you're a cleric of Mystra. Those who bear such a bloodline don't typically—"

He caught himself, realizing he was musing aloud. "Forgive me," he said, but he couldn't hide the burning curiosity in his eyes.

She stared defiantly at the target. He was formulating questions again. There was nothing secret in what he wondered about, but she found she didn't want to tell him of her history. It was too much of a connection. Too much like friendship.

"Sorcery is not uncommon among the Knights of the Blue Moon," was all she offered by way of explanation. This was true, it was one of the reasons she had been raised among them. But she was not really a Knight, and to be a cleric never would have been her choice, if she had ever had one.

She surveyed the scene before her. The tiefling at the gates was calling out thanks and offering for them to enter if they would. The light was fading and they did need a safe place to rest. It was a good change of subject.. "Shall we make camp within the gates? We can see what this place has to offer in the morning when we are rested."

The target looked disappointed, as if fighting one battle together had made them friends. His shoulders sagged slightly at her deflection, but he recovered quickly. "Of course," he said, letting the matter drop for now. "A rest would be most welcome."

He gestured toward the gates where the tieflings were beckoning them forward, and they headed in. "I must say, after that display of yours, I feel considerably more optimistic about our chances,” he said enthusiastically. “Whatever challenges lie ahead, we make quite the formidable team."

There was genuine warmth in his voice despite her attempts to freeze him out. As he spoke, she observed the way he spoke with his whole body, his hands most of all. The fight seemed to have stirred something in him. He looked invigorated and he had a spark in his eye when he looked at her that she didn’t like. It was a look that said he was determined to crack her open eventually.

"Shall we see what hospitality our new friends have to offer?" he asked, starting toward the gates. She noticed how his gaze kept darting to the sparks that still flickered around her fingers, his curiosity clearly warring with tactful restraint.

"Let's go," Wren responded, scowling at his high spirits. "But let's be careful and not interact with these people more than we need to. We carry something unpredictable and dangerous within us now. It's best not to stay too long around others lest..." she trailed off, unwilling to contemplate the end result of the tadpoles.

She chose her wording specifically. The target had chosen to keep the orb secret from her, but she hoped to remind him of the additional danger he carried within him. It was tempting to seek other survivors of the nautiloid and band together, but she traveled with someone who was walking destruction and any who journeyed with them were in grave danger.

The target's expression grew more somber at her words, and he nodded slowly. "Quite right. We can't know how unpredictable the … parasites might become, especially around others."

He touched his temple briefly, as if feeling the invader squirming behind his eye, but there was something else in his expression. His eyes held a flicker of additional worry that went beyond just the tadpole. Her careful phrasing had done its job.

"A brief respite, some basic supplies if they can spare them, and perhaps word of any healers or scholars in the region who might know something about ceremorphosis," he said, his tone becoming more distant. "Nothing more."

But there was something in his eyes, a haunted quality that suggested he was all too aware of the dangers that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

After entering the gates, they learned from Zevlor, leader of the tieflings, that they were in a druid grove. They also learned that the druids were preparing a ritual to hide the grove. The goblins were growing more threatening each day, and the druids were retreating. All outsiders were to be ejected. 

They also learned there was a healer among the druids named Nettie and they resolved to speak with her the next day before departing.

Next, they found a trader who could sell them enough supplies for a meal. The target also managed to procure a bottle of Ithbank, while Wren disappointedly chose between Chultan Fireswill and bitter ale. She finally settled on the fireswill, feeling the need for something strong.

They found an out-of-the-way spot near the gates and settled in for the night. Wren wasted no time setting up her tent, but the target busied himself preparing a fire, and pulled up a log to make a small bench, large enough for two. Wren lingered just outside the light, her bottle of fireswill in her hand, caught between her desire for solitude and his clear wish for companionship.

The target stared into the fire he'd coaxed to life and Wren shifted back and forth, trying to decide what to do. "Go to hell," he muttered, staring back into the flames as they danced higher.

Wren froze. What did he know? What had he figured out?

He looked up and noticed her standing there. She could see the moment of recognition in his expression, followed by what looked like genuine concern when he saw her stricken face. "Forgive me," he said. "That wasn't directed at you. I was merely musing. It's an everyday expression, so trivial it's almost meaningless. But we've seen hell today, haven't we?" He gestured vaguely in the direction they'd come from, where the remains of the nautiloid lay. "It's real, and it isn't trivial."

As he continued, she relaxed. But his words had startled her and she decided she had better join him. The less time he had to think and wonder about her on his own, the better. She took a step closer, into the ring of light.

He sat on the log and took a sip of his Ithbank, and she watched him savor the complex layers of flavor with the appreciation of someone who understood fine wine. Then he patted the log beside him in clear invitation. "Devils, dragons, mindflayers. They used to be abstract. Pictures in a manuscript, theoretical constructs for academic debate. What a difference a day makes."

His brown eyes found hers in the firelight. "Now,” he continued, “we have tadpoles slithering through our heads, and I've witnessed storm magic I wasn't expecting to see from a cleric at all."

There was gentle curiosity in his voice. "Care to join a befuddled wizard by the fire? I promise not to pester you with too many questions."

She found a spot on the log, seating herself as far from the target as she could. He didn’t seem offended by that. In fact, he looked disgustingly pleased when she chose to join him.  She took a swill from her bottle, wincing. The spice in the brew was not nearly enough to disguise the taste. She thought wistfully of the dark, mellow whiskey left behind in Waterdeep.

He took another sip of his wine, then he gestured toward her bottle with a sympathetic wince. "I see you're experiencing the particular torment that is Chultan fireswill. My condolences. I'm amazed they manage to make something that burns going down yet somehow leaves you feeling colder afterward.” He extended his own bottle towards her, offering to share, but she shook her head. 

"I can't help but feel we are still in the hells" she said, staring into the flames. The reality of their situation had begun to set in. Whatever Mystra's plan, they had perhaps mere days before the tadpoles enacted their gruesome transformation.

His posture remained open, one arm supporting his weight on the log so he could angle himself towards her. "The hells indeed," he agreed. "Though I confess I find the company considerably more agreeable than I'd expect."

Wren looked straight ahead into the fire, but she could still feel the target studying her in the flickering light. 

"You know," he said carefully, and she could hear the measured tone of someone choosing their words with care, "in all my years under Mystra's guidance, I never encountered anyone who blended sorcery and divine magic the way you did today. Yet there you were, conducting lightning like a maestro while also tossing around healing magic."

"It is unusual," she acknowledged. "Sorcerers are not much drawn to divine service. What need for divine magic when power runs through your veins?"

She refused to look at him. The glances they had already shared had revealed a face that was open and inviting, warm and companionable. Her fingers itched to sketch it, to capture the subtle humor that seemed to lurk at the corners of his mouth even in serious conversation, but her discipline locked down hard. A target, she reminded herself.

"My situation is an accident of my birth," she explained. "I was dedicated to Mystra as a babe. I have served her all my life." That much she would reveal and no more.

Instead she deflected with a question: "And you? How came you to be Mystra's Chosen?" This was a safe topic. This much, she already knew. Whatever he said could not draw her into deeper knowledge of him.

He didn’t answer right away, weighing his words, his fingers absently turning the wine bottle as he gathered his thoughts. "Ah," he said finally, taking a longer drink from his bottle. "That's rather a longer tale than you might expect."

He was quiet for a moment, clearly wrestling with how much to reveal. When he spoke again, his voice flowed like someone recounting a story he'd told himself many times, trying to make sense of it.

"I was always prodigiously gifted, or so I was told. The Weave sang to me from childhood and magic felt as natural to me as breathing. By the time I reached Blackstaff Academy, I was already convinced I was destined for greatness." He let out a self-deprecating laugh. "The arrogance of youth, perhaps, but it wasn't entirely unfounded."

His gaze grew distant, lost in memory, and she watched the light play across his features as his expression filled with longing. "Mystra herself took notice. Can you imagine? The Mother of Magic, choosing a mortal wizard as her pupil, her..." He paused, struggling with the words, and she saw a flush creep into his cheeks. "Well. Let's say our relationship became intimate. For a time, I was her Chosen and her lover, privy to secrets of magic that few mortals ever glimpse."

The pain in his voice became more pronounced, and she noticed the way his shoulders drew inward slightly, as if he were protecting himself from something. "Until I wasn't. Until I proved that even the goddess's favor has its limits when one's ambition exceeds one's wisdom."

He looked at her then, studying her face for a reaction. "Was, you'll note. Past tense. I suspect my days of being anyone's Chosen are well behind me."

Wren nodded. "There is freedom in that," she offered. "You may choose your own path now, not the one the goddess bids you walk."

The target looked at her with surprise, clearly not having expected such a response from one of Mystra’s own clerics. She could feel his eyes on her, that analytical gaze that seemed to catalog every detail. He was trying to solve her again, like a difficult puzzle. She refused to let him.

"Freedom," he repeated slowly, as if testing the word against his palate like a fine wine. "I hadn't considered it in quite those terms." He was quiet for a moment, turning her words over in his mind, and she watched the way his brow furrowed slightly in concentration. "I suppose serving a goddess from infancy like you have would rather limit one's options."

His posture relaxed slightly, shoulders dropping as if he were setting down a heavy burden. "I confess, I have seen my fall from grace as nothing but a loss. The power, the knowledge, the sense of purpose..." He gestured vaguely with his bottle. "But you may have a point. There's something to be said for choosing one's own course, however uncertain it might be."

He glanced at her again, and she could feel the inquisitiveness behind those intelligent eyes.. "I get the impression that freedom is something you value but perhaps don’t get to enjoy often. Tell me, when was the last time you chose something for yourself, simply because you wanted it?"

Wren kept her gaze locked on the fire, her face a closed door. Finally she spoke. "Never," she answered. "Choice is not a luxury I am allowed."

The conversation was too much, too personal. It touched on deep wounds she had long buried. She felt the girl she had once been screaming deep within her. Unbidden, static electricity crackled around her and a breeze swept through the camp, disturbing the fire.

She rose. "We should get some rest. We must wake early tomorrow to find the healer." Then she stood and stalked to her tent.

As she made her escape, she could feel the target's eyes on her back, following her. "Wren—" he started, but she was already crawling inside, closing the tent flaps decisively behind her and effectively ending their conversation.

Chapter Text

In the days of shadow, when goblin hordes threatened the sacred groves, there came to the Ascendant a wise druidess. 'Great Lord of Ambition,' she beseeched, 'grant me the strength to protect my people and lead them to safety.

The Ascendant, seeing her noble desire to rise above her station for righteous purpose, blessed her with divine wisdom. Through his guidance did she cast out the goblin threat and preserve her Grove's sanctity.

Thus did the Lord of Ambition first demonstrate that worthy ambition serves not only the self, but the protection of all who dwell in its embrace.

—The Golden Verses, chapter 8: 12-14

Gale

Gale breathed deep in the morning air of the druid grove. It was ripe with the scent of growing things, and it seemed like a dream after the chaos of the nautiloid and the fragmented terror of the sigil stone. As peaceful as it was, there was no time to enjoy it with the parasites poised to enact their deadly transformation, likely within days.

Instead, he focused on keeping pace with Wren, who walked with purposeful strides toward the grove's inner sanctum. The unfinished conversation from the night before haunted his thoughts, but he didn't dare bring it up again.

Especially not now that their plans had already been derailed. When they set out from camp, they had intended to find Nettie, the druid healer. Instead, a young druid had hurried up to them soon after they had struck camp. She was slightly out of breath and in a great hurry.

"Excuse me, Kagha wishes to see you both. She's in the inner sanctum, and ... well, she says she wishes to see you now."

Though Wren betrayed little of her feelings, Gale could see the signs of her impatience and irritation in the set of her jaw and the way she stalked toward the center of the Grove. It was clear she had no wish to speak with Kagha, but they were guests and had little choice. Druids were typically known for their softheartedness and care, but Zevlor’s tale suggested that Kagha ruled with an iron fist.

Apparently, Kagha had recently taken over leadership after the true leader, Halsin, had departed on an errand. It was she who had ordered the closure of the grove and she who was turning the tieflings out to face the dangers of the road while the druids cowered in their sanctuary.

As they approached the chamber, they heard raised voices and Gale could sense magic in the air. They entered into a tableau that pulsated with menace. A small tiefling child cowered in front of Kagha, while a massive snake coiled behind her. Kagha loomed over the child and her face was cold with fury. 

The tiefling child was in tears. "Please! I'm sorry!" the girl whimpered.

Another druid tried to step in: "This is madness, Kagha, she's just a..."

"A what, Rath? A thief, a poison, a threat? I will imprison the devil, and I will cast out every stranger!" Kagha cut the other druid off.

Standing next to Wren, Gale could actually feel the storm within her rise. The small hairs on his arms rose as static electricity suddenly snapped in the air around her like a shield. She stepped forward. "Imprison her?" she asked, indicating the small tiefling. "She's just a child."

Kagha's response was exactly what one might expect from someone drunk on authority. "She's a parasite. She eats our food, drinks our water, then steals our most holy idol in thanks!" She turned to the other druid. "Rath, lock her up, she remains here until the rite is complete." She turned back to the child, who was shaking so hard now that it was practically audible. "And keep still, devil. Teela is restless."

The massive snake shifted at her words, hissing at the child, the sharp venomous teeth too close to that small head. The air around Wren seemed to thicken the way it did before a gathering storm finally burst. Gale stepped closer to show her that he stood with her.

"Kagha," he said, trying to project the authority he'd once held as an archmage, "surely there are more proportionate responses to a child's mistake?"

Wren was more direct. "Release her," Wren told the druid and there was both command and challenge in her voice. The room rippled with energy and the look in Wren's eye said there would be trouble if she wasn't heeded. "I will see that she stays out of trouble." She stared at the druid with the look of someone very dangerous if crossed.

Gale felt a strange pride in his companion’s defense of the child. He was surprised, but pleased that Wren had chosen to interfere. So far, she had been all business, and insistent on keeping to themselves. Now, however, she had seen a child in danger and she had stood against it.

Kagha's eyes narrowed as she evaluated the challenge in Wren’s voice, and the subtle display of her power. There was a long, tense moment of silence as the druid weighed her options, calculating whether her tenuous hold on the Grove was strong enough to  answer this challenge to her authority.

"Very well," Kagha finally said, though her tone suggested this concession cost her. "But if anything further interrupts the ritual, she will be locked up immediately."

The little tiefling scrambled away from Kagha, tears still streaming down her face. Arabella was her name, Gale remembered. They had witnessed the confrontation between her parents and the druids who guarded the inner sanctum. 

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" The child ran to Wren, putting her small arms around the cleric's legs and hugging them hard. Wren turned into a statue, clearly unsure what to do with the child’s enthusiastic and very physical display of gratitude. After a few moments, her hands came up to hover uncertainly in the air before finally settling on the tiefling child's back with the hesitation of someone touching an animal that may or may not bite.

She stayed like that for a few seconds, then took the girl's shoulders and pried the tiefling away from her legs. Speaking to her sternly, she ordered: "Go back to your parents and stay with them. Do not leave their side. If you do, I will find you and give you back to Kagha myself." The girl nodded, eyes wide, and scampered off.

Gale watched the entire exchange with fascination. The way Wren froze when the child embraced her, then that tentative, almost painful gentleness as she patted the girl's back. It was like watching someone who had long forgotten try to remember how to be a person.

Once they were out of immediate earshot, Gale leaned slightly closer to her. "That was well done," he said quietly. He paused, then his curiosity got the better of him, "The girl. She reminded you of someone, perhaps?"

"I was never that soft," Wren shot back.

"Soft," he repeated quietly. He glanced sideways at her, noting how she was already rebuilding her walls, locking away any response to what had just happened. "Whoever taught you to see emotion as weakness did you a great disservice."

He paused, then ventured carefully, "You were a child once too. Surely there was something of Arabella in you at one point?"

Wren's eyes were on the girl as she ran off. "No. There has never been softness in me, even as a girl. I was born with a storm inside me."

She turned on Gale, her eyes accusatory. "You may wish to find the softness, to peel me like a fruit until you reach some sweetness within, but it's not there. The goddess took me and sharpened me, but there was never any softness, only anger and rebellion. Peel all you like, there is no sweet, only bitter."

He felt her defenses slam between them. She turned away and went towards the other druid. Rath, Kagha had called him. Rath explained that Kagha wished them to escort the tieflings out of the Grove. She wanted them to offer their protection in hopes it would persuade the tieflings to leave peacefully. Wren dismissed the idea out of hand. Rath looked disappointed but unsurprised.

When Wren inquired about Nettie, Rath pointed the way to the infirmary, and Wren immediately moved in the direction he indicated, leaving Gale to follow in her wake.

He did, noting the deliberate way she put distance between them, when he tried to learn more about her. He caught up easily enough, matching her pace as they navigated toward the infirmary.

He couldn't help pushing just a bit. "Rebellion," he said, catching the word from what she had said earlier. "That's not hardness. Rebellion requires great empathy and feeling. The urge to rebel comes from knowing, somewhere deep down, that things could be different. That they should be different."

Wren did not respond this time, just clenched her jaw. Gale accepted her silence, letting his words settle in. She was like a nut he could not crack. He knew he should just leave well enough alone, but every wall she slammed between them made him more curious to see what lay beyond. Perhaps it was his loneliness, or perhaps just his natural inclination. After so much time in isolation, focused on the fruits of his own folly, he didn't really know himself anymore.

They found Nettie in her chambers. The stolid druid seemed kind enough, though a little tired and distracted. She led them into an inner chamber and sealed the door behind them. Watching that stone door click shut, Gale felt the first stirrings of unease. Then the thorny plant in her hands caught his attention. Suddenly, all of his warning bells were going off. 

"What's that plant? Will it help?" he asked, though something in his gut suggested the answer wouldn't be what they were hoping for.

"Of course," Nettie breezed past his question. "Now tell me what's been happening. Any symptoms, strange events?"

Something in her manner made both of them wary. Wren responded carefully. "No, nothing strange. I just want this thing out of my head before anything does happen."

"Nothing? You're sure?"

"I'm sure," Wren spat the answer, sharp and impatient.

"All right, I suppose that makes things easier," said Nettie, as if the response had decided her on something. "Give me your arm, please."

As she reached for Wren, the druid brought the plant around from behind her back and Gale could see sharp thorns, glistening with moisture. Nothing about it looked healing. 

"Wait, I don't think—" he started to say, but it was too late.

Nettie scratched Wren with the thorny branch and his blood turned to ice. "There," said the druid, matter-of-factly. "Be careful, your legs will probably give out first."

"What in the hells have you done?" Wren demanded, but her voice remained steady even as Gale's world tilted. In his mind, he saw his companion falling before him, the poison taking her from him. He was not prepared for the vision or how it made him feel.

Wren wrenched the branch out of the druid's hand. Her face showed nothing, but thunder rumbled throughout the room.

"I'm sorry," the druid responded, and she did sound genuinely remorseful. "Maybe Master Halsin could have plucked that thing from your head, but I can't. Without him here, the only treatment is death. You're a risk to those around you." Her eyes filled with guilt as she caught sight of Gale's face. "I'm truly sorry, for what it's worth. It will be like going to sleep."

Gale stepped forward, putting all the authority he could muster into his voice. "This goes against everything your order stands for," he said firmly to Nettie. "To do no harm, to preserve life, to seek balance. Murdering someone out of fear flies in the face of every principle druids hold sacred." 

Wren had her own way of dealing with the situation. She looked at the druid with icy eyes and threatened. "I know you have the antidote. Give it to me now, or we will take it. From your corpse if need be." The air crackled dangerously around her and her eyes were as sharp as the whirlstars on her belt.

Nettie looked between the two, feeling the rebuke in Gale's words and the threat in Wren's. Her facade couldn't hold against both of them.

"Gods above," she relented. "It's a risk, but maybe you deserve a chance. Master Halsin said some of the tadpoles are dormant, maybe yours is too."

She went back to her workstation and returned to Wren with several bottles. "This is the antidote," she said, handing one bottle over. Wren grabbed it and swallowed. Nettie then handed over the other bottles. "This is wyvern poison. It's quick and painless. Swear to me you'll swallow it if you start to feel symptoms."

Wren took the other bottles and nodded with the stoicism of someone used to receiving orders like this. "Of course. If the tadpole begins to turn, I will not hesitate."

She turned to Gale, handing him one of the bottles of poison and indicating that he must promise to Nettie as well. Gale watched this entire exchange with growing horror and fury. When Wren turned to him, the look in her eyes was painful. There was a kind of weary acceptance that cut through him like a blade.

The way she accepted threats to her own wellbeing stood in sharp contrast to the way she had defended the child earlier. She acted as if threats to others were injustice, but threats to herself were merely … expected. She acted as if her own life held little value.

"I..." he paused, looking between the poison and Wren's carefully controlled expression. "Yes. If symptoms begin, I'll... I understand the necessity."

The words tasted bitter in his mouth. Not because he was lying. Gods help him, he wasn't sure if he was telling the truth or not. If he died ... the orb...

As they prepared to leave, Gale could barely contain the tangle of emotions writhing inside him. He felt rage at Nettie's deception and terror at how close they'd come to disaster. Most  disturbing of all was realizing how much he’d come to depend on Wren in such a short time. Her safety now mattered to him. More than it mattered to her, apparently.

"Master Halsin may still be able to help you," Nettie offered. "But he went to track down the source of these tadpoles, and he hasn't come back."

"Do you think he's still alive?" Wren inquired.

"I don't know," the druid responded, "but if you can find Halsin and bring him back, he may be able to save your life. Bear in mind, he may have walked right into the heart of the goblins' den, so finding him won't be a walk in the park."

"I see," said Wren, clearly not liking any of their options. She looked towards Gale. "We'll discuss it."

Nettie nodded. "Whatever you decide, good luck out there. And if things start to go bad, remember your promise," she reminded them, looking at the bottles of poison they carried.

The moment they were out of Nettie's chambers, Gale could no longer contain himself. The fury that had been building finally erupted and he lost all control over himself.

"I can't believe she poisoned you!" he said, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. "She tried to put you down like a dying dog without so much as a whisper of consent!"

Wren studied Gale, clearly taken aback by his fury. "The only dead dog would have been her if she hadn't given in," she reassured him.

He was pacing now, his hands gesturing wildly as the words poured out. "Good! A taste of her own medicine is what she deserves. She had no right! How dare she snuff out life with as much thought as snuffing out a bloody candle?" He was aware he was making a scene, but the image of Wren collapsing in front of him had left him shaken in ways he didn't expect.

He stopped pacing and looked at her directly. Her face gave away nothing as usual, but her eyes held a new uncertainty. He noticed it, but he was too overtaken by emotion to stop now. "And the way you just accepted that wyvern poison. As if someone handing you poison and asking you to use it is perfectly normal." He couldn’t keep the intensity from his voice. "How many times has someone done that to you before, Wren? Just asked you to die as if it's all part of the job?"

Wren's face snapped shut at that question, all signs of feeling leaving her eyes, and her voice grew hard. "Calm down. I'm fine." Her voice was firm and cold.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to collect himself. "I know you're fine. I can see you're fine. But a few moments more, a few different words, and ... or if it had been me..."

He trailed off, the full implications hitting him. If he had been poisoned, if the orb had destabilized...

"If it had been you...?" she asked.

Gale caught himself realizing he was about to reveal far more than he was ready to. The orb, the danger it posed. She didn't know what he carried in addition to the tadpole, and this wasn't the place for such revelations. Now he was the one who looked away as he struggled to find words that wouldn't expose too much.

"I was just realizing that I would likely have been her next victim," he said, his voice strained with the lie. "The point is," he deflected, "what she did was unconscionable. To you, or to anyone.”

He took a breath. "But you handled it brilliantly. That threat, the way you stared her down. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

He tried to change the subject with flattery, but underneath it, he knew he owed her more. He was hiding things from her and it wasn’t sustainable when danger assaulted them from all directions. He pulled himself together, suddenly embarrassed by his display. "I could quite do with a tumbler of Waterdeep whiskey," he offered. "Shall we return to camp and decide what to do about this Halsin fellow?"

Wren looked baffled by everything she had witnessed, but the mention of whiskey seemed to land with her. "Yes, let's procure supplies for tonight," she replied quickly. "We'll go back to camp and discuss our options."

She studied him one more time, confusion written clearly on her face. Then she shook her head and started walking. Gale could see the moment she decided it didn't matter and shut down the inquiry.

That familiar signal that the conversation was over made something twist in him. How many times had she done this? Cut off her own questions, because someone had taught her that her concerns don't matter?

He fell into step beside her, but the anger was still simmering beneath the surface. Not at her, but at whatever had shaped her into someone who saw herself as unimportant. Despite her usual pattern of walking away when the conversation became emotional, she hadn't left him during his outburst. She had stayed while he ranted and raged. She had offered no comfort, only acceptance. Anger was something she understood, he realized. She just didn’t know why he was so angry.

He glanced at her. "Sometimes getting upset is the only sane response to an insane situation," he responded to her unasked question. They were approaching the merchant, but he slowed, needing to tell her this. "Sometimes we get upset not because of what happened to us, but because of what happened to someone else." He paused, searching for the right words.  "Someone whose well-being matters to us."

Wren's eyes briefly opened wide in astonishment, but she didn't deflect or change the subject as she normally would. The silence stretched between them. Then her eyes quickly drew together in a scowl, and she stalked the rest of the way to the merchant, tuning Gale out and focusing hard on her negotiations.

As Wren dealt with the merchant, she was efficient, focused, and very deliberately not looking at Gale. He could tell she was trying to ignore what he had said, to pretend it had never happened. But he also noticed she was procuring the strongest liquor the merchant had available, something potent enough to numb even the most persistent thoughts. 

That evening, they sat by their fire with the bottle of Whalebone Spiced between them. A peace offering from Wren, perhaps, or just acknowledgment that the day had been hard for both of them. Gale had been reviewing everything since their meeting at the sigil. The way Wren handled the crises they faced, the trust she demonstrated in him even as she pushed him away. It was that trust that got him. He couldn't keep her in the dark about the full extent of the danger he posed. At least, not totally. 

Taking a sip from his cup, he noted with approval that while she had chosen for strength, she hadn't skimped on quality. He leaned back against the log and studied her in the firelight. She had positioned herself with clear sight lines to the camp's perimeter, but he noticed she'd settled closer to the warmth of the fire, and closer to him, than the night before.

"We've been traveling together for only two days, but it seems like more, doesn’t it?" He began with a conversational tone. "We've survived some perils, and overcome some obstacles. Ever since you were kind enough to free me from that stone, I've seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and courage."

He paused, meeting her eyes directly. "The way you handled Kagha today, the way you faced down Nettie... well, in short, I've grown to trust you."

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What is with this flattery all of the sudden?" She scooted slightly away from him as she asked, and he realized he was laying it on thick, even for him. It rang false.

He took another sip, then set his cup aside, his expression growing more serious. "The reason I say this is that I've grown confident enough to tell you something I've yet to tell another living soul except for my tressym."

He leaned forward slightly, the firelight casting shadows across his face. "You see, I have this condition. Very different from the parasite we share, but just as deadly."

"What kind of condition?" Her eyes snapped back to his.

Gale picked up the bottle and took a swig under the intense scrutiny. "The specifics are rather personal," he began carefully. How could he put this so she would understand without him having to reveal too much? An illness, perhaps.

"The truth is, it's a malady I've learned to live with, though not without considerable effort. What it comes down to is this: every so often, I need to get my hands on a powerful magic item and absorb the Weave inside it."

He watched her face carefully for her reaction. "I know how that sounds. Consuming magical artifacts isn't exactly conventional. But it's not a choice, Wren. It's a necessity." His voice grew more urgent. "It's been days since I consumed an appropriate item, since before we were abducted. It's only a matter of time before the need returns. And when it does..."

He trailed off, unwilling to get into specifics. "That's why I'm telling you this. I need your help. I need you to help me find suitable items when the time comes. It's vital. Dare I say, it's critical."

Her normally expressionless face now showed bewilderment, and she looked right at him. Normally she avoided his eyes, but now he got the strangest feeling she was looking at his eyes to avoid looking somewhere else.

"You have an illness that requires you to consume magic?" She asked. "I'm going to need more details, wizard."

Gale shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, feeling the tables turn. Now he was the one facing questions, and he didn't like it any more than she did. 

"I..." he started, then stopped. "I can say no more on the matter. Not now, anyway."

The words tasted acrid in his mouth. How many times had she deflected his questions with similar non-answers? But this was different, he told himself. It was necessary to tell her only what she needed to know, or else she might …. he cringed at his own cowardice as he admitted the truth to himself. If she knew everything, she might leave him to face it all alone.

"Just trust me when I say it's of vital importance," he continued. "The specifics are complicated and dangerous to discuss openly."

He leaned forward, meeting her eyes directly. "What I can tell you is that without regular feeding, the consequences could be catastrophic. Not just for me, but for anyone in the vicinity." He paused, letting that sink in. "So I'm asking, no, I'm begging you to help me find what I need when the time comes. Your life may depend on it as much as mine."

There was desperation creeping into his voice now. He needed her to agree to this. "Can you do that for me? Even without knowing everything?"

She looked at him coolly, but in her eyes he detected something more. Was that … disappointment? She took a drink, turning her face away from him, staring into her cup. "If it is necessary to keep moving, then I will help you with this ... condition," she said. "What sort of items do you need?"

Gale felt a wave of relief wash over him. She clearly had lost some trust in him, but at least  she was willing to stay despite the danger he presented. He'd take what he could get.

"You have my thanks," he said. "And fear not! Your help will be rewarded with any and all means at my disposal."

He leaned back slightly, some of the tension leaving him "As for what I need, magical items with significant enchantments. Weapons, armor, jewelry, artifacts. Anything that bears the Weave's power. The stronger the magic, the more sustaining it proves to be."

He paused, studying her profile as she stared into her cup. There was something about her acceptance that made him wonder what she wasn't saying. It was too quick, too easy.

"The craving isn't pleasant when it comes," he added quietly. "I may not be entirely myself. If you see me becoming agitated, distracted, that's likely why." He took another sip of the amber spirit. "I know this is a lot to ask of someone I've only just begun to know properly."

In response, Wren leaned down and rummaged in her pack, drawing out a delicate necklace with a locket attached to it and handing it over. The locket had a small inscription that read "Never dark again."

"Arabella's mother gave this to me as thanks for returning her daughter to her. You can keep it for when you need it. Hopefully the enchantment on it is enough." She refused to meet his eyes again.

Gale took the necklace from her, feeling the subtle threads of magic within the delicate gold locket. For a moment, he just held it. "This is..." he began, then stopped, before he let his emotions get the better of him again. "The enchantment is quite suitable," he confirmed. "Thank you. Truly."

He noticed the way she wouldn't meet his eyes, the distance she maintained even in this act of generosity. After everything that had happened today, she was retreating again, though he didn’t quite understand why. He hadn’t tried to pry. They hadn’t spoken of her at all, only of his condition.

He paused, then said softly, as if quieter words might slip more easily past her barriers. "I won't forget this kindness, Wren. Whatever else happens."

Chapter Text

When Ambition tasted forbidden fruit, the sentence pronounced was death. Rebellion came with the blade, but offered her hand instead. 

Ambition cast aside his hunger and reached for her in turn. Then stars wept and trembled, for where they met, the heavens would burn.

—Silverymoon Archive of Northern Folk Tales, Volume VII

Wren

The next morning, Wren and the target set out towards the goblin camp, picking their way along an old road that was littered with the wreckage of goblin raids and attacks. 

Before setting out, they had tracked down the adventurers who had accompanied Halsin to the goblin stronghold. From the remaining members of that failed expedition, they learned the camp's location, and some crucial details about its defenses and inhabitants. 

Most importantly, the adventurers revealed that some outsiders known as "True Souls," were welcomed into the camp without harassment. From what the adventurers described, Wren and the wizard deduced that “True Souls” were people infected with mindflayer tadpoles. The parasites seemed to serve as a kind of passport among the followers of the Absolute cult.

The adventurers couldn’t tell them how True Souls were recognized, so the two of them decided they had no choice but to do surveillance when they arrived and hope they could bluff their way in. It was a dangerous gambit, but they had few options left.

The next few days of travel passed without incident. They encountered some small bands of goblins, each easily dispatched. Wren noted that with each fight, the target used less of the fire magic that was his go-to. Instead he relied more on lightning and thunder, to match her storm magic. She hated to admit it, but their magic did seem to grow stronger when he chose his spells to synchronize with hers.

Even worse, the target spent every night at camp gently chipping away at her barriers. He now knew exactly when she was about to shut down and he pushed just enough to reach that point. Then he politely backed off. He filled the gaps with stories about himself, observations from the day, and discussions of the small philosophical and theoretical questions that filled his mind.

She was learning far too much about him, but even that wasn't even the worst thing. The worst thing was that her notebook was now filled with studies of the target. With little else to see on their travels, her pages now held ever more detailed drawings of his face. Studies of his hands: casting spells, gesturing animatedly, and preparing components. Each night, her pages captured his many moods in charcoal. Lately, she had begun to draw moods she hadn't seen yet. Moods that took shape in her mind, easily imagined now that she had captured him so often she could draw him blind.

After each drawing, she slammed her notebook shut, despising what had emerged from her charcoal. But each time a new image presented itself to her mind's eye, she opened it again, seeking to purge it from her imagination.

Today they had walked for several hours without incident when Wren spotted the village. At first, she felt relief at the prospect of a place to rest, perhaps even gather new supplies. As they drew closer to the settlement's gates, however, that relief curdled into wariness. The village was long abandoned, its buildings rotting away.

As they approached the entrance, Wren caught a subtle movement on the rooftops, then the glint of weapons. Goblins perched like hawks for any unsuspecting soul foolish enough to stroll through those gates.

Wren motioned for the target to fall in beside her and approached with calculated nonchalance, calling up to the hidden watchers: "I see you up there. I hope you're not planning to harm a True Soul."

There was a tense debate among the goblins, their guttural voices harsh as they weighed whether to attack or not. Wren decided to make their decision for them. Her voice cut through their deliberations with cold authority: "I tire of this. Out of my way, or I'll cut you down first."

It was exactly the kind of response they expected from a “True Soul.” They immediately backed down, the leader’s voice turning from mocking to respectful.

As they passed through the gates, the wizard fell into step beside her. "I must say, you have quite the talent for intimidation. Is that particular brand of menace something they teach at your temple, or is it more of a natural gift?"

"Let's move through quickly," Wren replied curtly, dodging the question as usual. Her eyes scanned the empty streets. "The goblins seem to be using this place as an outpost and there are a lot of them here. My bluff worked for now, but knowing goblins, it's only a matter of time before they find an excuse to attack us."

The target gestured at the abandoned buildings around them as they walked, casually lecturing her on the architecture despite their precarious situation. "This place has seen better days, hasn't it?” He looked around as they walked. “The stonework suggests Selûnite origins. See those lunar motifs carved into the lintels?"

Suddenly, he paused. "Wait," he said, extending one hand as if feeling for something invisible in the air. "Do you feel that? It’s powerful magic. Coming from..."

He turned slowly, following the sensation until his focus settled on an abandoned apothecary shop. The building looked no different from the others: weathered, crumbling stone, rotting wood, and the emptiness of decades of abandonment.

"That building there," he said. "Whatever's inside, it's positively brimming with power. I’m sure it could prove useful. For my condition." He glanced at Wren, torn between caution and curiosity. "It’s only a small building. We could just take a quick look."

Wren stopped, torn. Everything about this situation told her to get beyond this village as fast as possible. At the same time, if they found something to calm the orb, that meant less chance of her having to enact the protocol.

She looked at the building he indicated and extended her own senses. It was definitely warded. They were old and fading, but the fact that they still held told her they had been quite powerful at one time. However, whatever the wizard was sensing, she couldn't sense, and that worried her even more.

There was a lone goblin patrolling the square in front of the shop, but she could see no one inside. Reluctantly, she agreed to the plan. "We can at least take a look, but if there's anyone in there, we leave. They won't want us poking around."

The target's face lit up, though she could see him trying to temper his enthusiasm with caution. "Of course, absolutely. Just a quick survey of the premises. If there's any sign of occupancy, we'll make our exit with all due haste."

He looked at the building again and unconsciously reached toward his chest, his hand trembling slightly. That touch of worry flitted through her again. He was forgetting to hide the orb from her, so strong was the pull of whatever he sensed. 

"I do appreciate it, Wren," he said sincerely. "I know it's not the wisest course of action, but this is an opportunity that may not come again."

Once the patrolling goblin turned the corner, they slipped into the building. Dried herbs hung from the rafters in desiccated bundles, and dusty glass vessels of various sizes lined shelves that had somehow survived all of the village’s trials. Wren even managed to find some potions that were still good, tucking them away in the pack she'd acquired at the Grove.

Their search revealed nothing out of the ordinary, just the remnants of an alchemist's trade. Wren turned to the target and shrugged. "I don't see anything special here."

The wizard stepped further into the building, his eyes closed in concentration as he extended his magical senses. "It's here, for sure, but..." He opened his eyes and began moving through the space methodically. "The signature is coming from below, I think. Or perhaps behind something."

He paused near the counter, then crouched down to examine the floor more carefully. "Ah! Here we are." His fingers found the edges of a hatch set into the floorboards, partially concealed by years of dust and debris.

"A cellar entrance," he said with satisfaction, brushing away the accumulated grime. He looked up at Wren with barely contained excitement. "The magical emanations are definitely coming from down there. Whatever our mysterious chemist was brewing in his basement, it was significantly more potent than anything he kept upstairs."

The target grasped the handle of the hatch and looked to her for confirmation. "Shall we see what secrets lie beneath?."

"We're here now. Might as well," Wren responded, though her unease continued to grow. His enthusiasm for the search was making him careless. She sighed, realizing she would simply have to watch both their backs.

Climbing down the rickety ladder into the cellar revealed nothing particularly interesting. More herbs and potions were scattered around, along with some notes, empty bottles and various debris, plus a few mummified onions in what had once been a root cellar.

The wizard moved through the cellar with increasing urgency and Wren began to feel a prickle of worry. He examined every shelf, cupboard, and corner, growing more frustrated as he went.

"It's here, I can feel it," he muttered. "But where...?" His voice was clipped and urgent. Wren could sense the orb growing more erratic, its energy flickering like a candle flame in a breeze.

He stopped abruptly near the north wall, pressing his palms against the stone. "Wait. This wall … the magical signature spikes when I touch it, but there's nothing here. Unless..." His eyes darted around the immediate area, landing on a stack of crates pushed against the wall.

With more strength than Wren had realized he possessed, he began moving the crates aside, revealing a lever built into the stonework.

"Wren, look at this," he called, his voice tight with anticipation. "A concealed mechanism. Whatever our apothecary was truly brewing, he went to great lengths to keep it secret."

He paused with his hand on the lever, sweat beginning to bead at his temples despite the cool air. "I... forgive me if I seem overly... it's just that the potential I sense is..." He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes growing distant. "It’s enormous."

He was definitely unstable, Wren realized with a growing alarm. This was exactly the kind of situation that could tank a mission. “Let’s just go, I don’t like this,” she tried, but he wasn’t listening.

The target pulled the lever and a section of the wall slid aside revealing a narrow passage beyond. The scent that wafted out was stale and rotten.

The wizard immediately moved toward the opening. "To think someone went to such..." He paused, his eyes unfocusing for a moment as if listening to something only he could hear. When they refocused, they held a fevered brightness that made Wren's instincts scream.

"You're concerned," he observed, though he made no move to step away from the passage. "And rightfully so. This level of concealment does suggest..." Again, his words trailed off as his attention was pulled elsewhere.

He took another step forward, despite acknowledging the danger. "Whatever lies ahead, it may be exactly what I need," he said. "If there's even a chance it could provide relief..." He looked at her, but he wasn't really seeing her anymore. "Just a little further? I promise, at the first sign of true danger..."

The promise felt hollow. Wren recognized the look in his eyes. He was losing his will to whatever called to him.

"It's your lead," said Wren, reluctantly deciding to trust his instincts despite all of hers screaming not to. "I don't like this at all, but if you truly think it's worth it..." She prepared herself to walk into the unknown and advised, "Just be ready for anything. The kind of person who sets up contraptions like this tends to arrange for other nasty surprises as well."

"Sage advice," the target replied, though his voice was distracted. He drew his staff, holding it ready as he began moving down the narrow passage.

The tunnel was carved directly through the rock beneath the village. She noticed the target was walking directly into the spider webs that stretched across the passage, oblivious to the sticky strands that clung to his robes and hair. When she tried to warn him of a low-hanging stone, he didn't respond at all.

The orb was becoming increasingly chaotic, its regular pulsing now random. She knew the smart choice would be to abort this mission, and extract him by force if necessary. But the orb was worrying her and if what he sought truly could provide what he needed...

The tunnel eventually opened into a small, rocky chamber. The target stopped short in front of a wall with an ornate mirror set into the stone. Its surface was clean and gleaming, despite the years of neglect. Ancient runes were carved around its frame, and energy radiated from it.

"Well," he said, his voice hushed. "That's not what I was expecting."

Wren pushed ahead to examine the mirror. As she did, she felt something within the mirror examine her in return. Oh great, one of these.

"This mirror is a guardian," she said flatly. "You wizards love these things. It will no doubt try to engage us in some sort of battle of wits and make us pass all kinds of tests. If we fail, it will blast us to bits."

She swore she could sense a smirk coming from the mirror. The wizard stepped closer, examining the mirror. "A guardian mirror," he mused, studying the runes. "Quite sophisticated work, too."

For a bit, he looked excited at the prospect of engaging in a battle of wits with a mirror, but then whatever had a hold of him must have yanked that string. "Given our current predicament and the rather pressing nature of my needs, perhaps we might consider a more expedient approach?" He looked at Wren. "You've shown remarkable talent for cutting through unnecessary complications. Any thoughts on bypassing our reflective friend here?"

Wren examined the mirror again, and unsure how to activate it, knocked on it like a door. There was a feeling of indignance, and then a vaguely glowing face appeared on the mirror's surface. "Speak your name," it commanded.

"I have a better idea, mirror," she responded coolly. "Open or I'll smash you to pieces." There was a pause, and Wren felt the mirror sizing her up. Suddenly, it slid back into the wall and the chamber beyond was revealed. She couldn't help the small, grim smile that crossed her face at her success.

The target stared at the open doorway, then let out a bark of delighted laughter that echoed off the stone walls. "Extraordinary!" he exclaimed. " I've read treatises on bypassing magical guardians. There are usually rituals, passwords, and intricate puzzles designed to test worthiness. I’ve never seen anything about simply … threatening  it into submission."

He shook his head in amazement. "I'm beginning to suspect that most mages have been dramatically overthinking these problems.."

"This mirror knows on some level that its master is long gone," Wren replied pragmatically. "They don't usually give in so easily, but the power invested in such guardians fades when their master has departed, as does their enthusiasm for their task." You couldn't be an errand-girl for the Mistress of Magic and not encounter your fair share of these kinds of guardians.

Now that the chamber was open, Wren could also feel what the wizard was sensing. The orb, constantly pulling at her magic, had drowned it out before. In the room beyond, she now felt something else that reached out to the magic in her blood. Something dark, with its own hungers.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, but the target had already entered the chamber.

"Gods above and below," he whispered. He moved forward, walking with dreadful certainty toward the far end of the room. When he reached it, he rattled the locked gate he found there like a prisoner seeking to get out, rather than an adventurer trying to get in. "We need to find a way through this. There has to be a key somewhere."

Wren stepped into the room behind him and looked around. "Chi'thall!" she cursed in Elvish as she took in the necromantic laboratory. The progression of experiments was laid bare on the tables: simple preservation at first, then animation, then increasingly complex and disturbing work. Personal effects were scattered among the apparatus, along with notes on failed experiments.

She could see the story written here. Someone had descended into obsession in this room, each experiment pushing further into darkness. The final workspace held tools so vile she couldn't identify their purpose, arranged around a pedestal that had clearly once held something precious.

"Whatever is in here cannot be worth it. Let's just go... we'll find something else."

The target barely registered her words. His attention was entirely consumed by whatever lay beyond that gate. "No, Wren, you don't understand," he said. "Whatever this is, it's not like the trinkets. This could sustain me for months, perhaps..." He pulled open drawers, scattered papers across tables, and shoved items off of shelves with increasing urgency.

"I know how this looks," he said frantically. "I know what this place is... but I can't... if I can just..." His fingers closed around an old iron key left rusting at the back of a shelf. "Found it!"

Wren watched all of this with alarm. This was beyond normal excitement, this was a complete loss of control. Everything in her training screamed at her to put a stop to this, but the hope in his voice when he mentioned lasting relief stopped her. If this truly could help him...

He turned back to the gate, key in hand, and for a moment he did stop as he caught sight of the disgust and fear on her face. "I'm sorry, I know I haven’t listened to you. But you have to understand, if there's even a chance this could help my condition for a long while..."

Wren tried to ignore the worry that clawed at her gut. He looked like a man possessed. But if he was right, if whatever was in there could keep him from exploding, maybe it was worth it. Maybe she wouldn't have to use the protocol at all.

The target's hands shook as he fit the key into the lock. The moment it clicked open, he threw the gate wide and stepped through. What lay beyond made him stop in his tracks.

"The Necromancy of Thay," he breathed. "I thought it was merely a legend..." He reached toward the item, then paused, glancing back at Wren. "There's something missing."

Wren walked up behind him and everything in her recoiled when she caught sight of the book. The binding appeared to be a concoction of flesh, metal, and bone. Carved into the cover was a face with amethyst eyes, its mouth open in an anguished scream. 

She felt the screaming of countless souls, and for a moment she bent over, trying not to retch. She backed away, divine magic springing to her fingers. The air around her glowed faintly with celestial light. "We need to destroy it," she demanded. "That book is evil."

She should say his name. That might call him back from whatever had possessed him. But she would not say his name. "There must be other things in here we can take. Things that aren't steeped in foulness."

The target spun around to face her, his eyes wild with a light she'd never seen before. The gentle wizard was gone, replaced by someone driven by a hunger that seemed to eclipse all reason.

"Destroy it?" His voice cracked with disbelief. "Wren, you don't understand what you're suggesting. This book contains the kind of power that surfaces perhaps once in a century."

He moved protectively between her and the book, gesturing frantically. "Yes, it's dark magic, I'm not blind to that. But I can contain it, control it. I've studied necromancy. Not to practice it of course, but to understand it. Knowledge is knowledge, regardless of its source."

His voice dropped to something approaching a plea. "I know how it looks, but please. Trust me on this. Help me find whatever opens it. There must be a key of some sort..." He turned back toward the book. "I can't leave it behind. I won't."

She relented. Again. Perhaps he was right. If he only meant to feed the book to the orb, it was a good thing, right? Yes, she told herself. Ridding the world of the book was a good thing. She tried to ignore the way it assaulted her senses. She tried even more to ignore the feeling of foreboding that tingled up her spine.

But if this would delay the protocol for as long as he believed... "Very well," she gave in. "I will trust that what you say is true, but let's get out of here. I don't want to stay a second longer."

The wizard gave a sigh of relief and carefully lifted the tome from its pedestal, wrapping it in his cloak to muffle the worst of its emanations. "Thank you," he said. "I know this isn't what you want. Normally, I wouldn’t risk it either. It's just … necessary."

As they made their way back out of the house, they passed an old well shaft in the courtyard. "There,” he stopped, pointing to it. “The key to the book, it's down there. Just... just let me investigate quickly."

"You are not going alone. I'm coming with you," Wren said firmly. She followed him to the well and looked down into its depths. It was dark and deep and smelled of something that was most certainly not fresh water.

The target tested the strength of the well's rope as if he would climb right down it, but Wren stepped forward shaking her head. She pulled a rope ladder from her pack and secured it to the metal pole that supported the roof of the well. "We'll need to get back out," she reminded him.

He gripped the rope ladder, ready to descend. "Stay close, we might find anything down there."

"Agreed," Wren acknowledged. She prepared herself for the worst. Something about the darkness made her skin crawl, and she expected it wasn't merely an empty hole that awaited them.

At the bottom, instead of water, there was a dank cavern. The walls were covered in thick, sticky webbing that gleamed in the target's mage light. Cocoons of various sizes hung from the ceiling, some still moving. Scattered across the floor were the rotting remains of goblins, humans, and other things they could no longer identify.

"Well," the target said quietly as Wren dropped down beside him, "that explains the smell. The key is here somewhere," he murmured. "Just a bit further..."

They emerged into a large open area where the walkway came to a stop, opening onto a chasm. Giant webs criss-crossed the void, connecting the ledges of the chasm. A skittering sound echoed from the shadows ahead. Multiple sets of eyes reflected the wizard's mage light from the darkness beyond.

"Ah," he said with forced calm, raising his staff. "I believe we're about to meet the current residents." Wren muttered another curse in Elvish, and prepared herself for a fight.

The creature that emerged from the shadows was a nightmare. She was a massive phase spider, easily the size of a cart horse. Her bloated abdomen pulsed and dripped with venom. Her legs moved with unnatural speed, and Wren could see the intelligence gleaming in her multiple eyes.

As smaller spiders began dropping from the webs above, the matriarch reared back. Her fangs dripped with toxins. The wizard reacted, but his reflexes were slow. He was distracted. The spell he attempted came out wrong.

"Get back!" he shouted to Wren as he cast. The thunderwave that finally erupted was unfocused, wasting energy. Several of the smaller spiders flew back, but the matriarch barely stumbled.

Wren cursed under her breath. She was going to have to carry this fight. Her protective instincts, honed by months of shadowing him, flared to life. He was vulnerable in this state. She had to keep him alive, whatever it took.

"The webs!" he called to her. "They're flammable! If we can—"

The matriarch suddenly flickered and vanished, reappearing directly behind him with supernatural speed. He didn't notice the threat.

Keep him safe.

The words echoed in Wren's head as the spider appeared behind the wizard. The lightning in her veins yearned for release, called forth by his thunder. But she heeded his advice. "Ignis!" she called out, stretching out her hand. A firebolt flew from it, past the wizard's legs, and landed on the web directly in front of the huge spider. The sticky substance dissolved under the flames.

The target leapt clear as the matriarch tumbled to the ground far below. She landed with a splat, injured but still very much alive. He spun around as he landed. "Brilliant shot!" he called to Wren, but even as he spoke, the matriarch was already moving below. Worse, a sickening wet sound echoed through the cavern as egg sacs began to rupture. Dozens of smaller spiders poured forth, their chittering filling the air like a malevolent chorus.

"She's calling her brood!" the target shouted, his hands already weaving another spell. "Ira et dolor!" As he incanted, a sphere of fire materialized before him and he sent it rolling toward the largest cluster of emerging spiderlings. The flaming sphere bowled through them, leaving trails of fire that ignited the webbing around the chamber.

Meanwhile, the matriarch had recovered and was already preparing to teleport again, her form beginning to shimmer as she prepared to phase back up to their level. The venomous glands near her fangs were swelling, preparing for what looked like a ranged attack.

"Wren!" he warned, raising his staff defensively. "She's about to—"

The spider vanished from below and materialized directly above them. She prepared to drop with all eight legs extended like spears.

Wren's hands flew up and a thunderwave erupted from her, slamming the spider into the cave ceiling. The matriarch’s venom hit the wall well above their heads, though Wren felt some drops splatter across her cheek, each one burning deep. She rode the tempestuous winds that surrounded her, flying to where the wizard stood, preparing to shield him.

He staggered backward as Wren landed in front of him, the raw power of her storm magic snapping and popping around her. "Wren, your face—" he started, seeing the angry red welts where the venom had struck her, but the matriarch was already recovering, shaking off the impact and preparing for another assault.

The spider shrieked as she reared back and spat a stream of concentrated venom directly at them both.

The wizard threw himself forward, pushing Wren aside as he raised his hands. A shield snapped into being around them and the venomous spray hissed and smoked as it struck the shield.

"This won't hold long!" he gritted out, feeling the spell strain and crack under the corrosive attack. Below them, the remaining spiderlings were beginning to climb the walls, drawn by their mother's distress calls. "We need to end this quickly!"

Wren grunted in annoyance. She was supposed to be protecting him. "Macte virtute," she said. From her lips it sounded more like a curse than a blessing. But tone didn’t matter and her sanctuary spell settled around the wizard anyway. 

She pulled whirlstars out of her belt and sent them flying. They sank into the spider's abdomen, exploding with lightning and thunder as they hit. The matriarch fell to the floor before Wren. With a cry of rage, the massive spider clamped her fangs into Wren's shoulder and bit hard. Wren screamed, as much in anger as in pain, and kicked at the spider that had latched onto her.

"Wren!" The wizard's anguished cry echoed through the cavern when he saw the massive fangs sink into her shoulder. The sanctuary spell she'd cast on him flickered and died as he went on the offensive.

The matriarch was wounded and dying, but still dangerous. The remaining spiderlings were closing in from all sides.

The wizard's voice was filled with rage as he called on his magic. "Glacies!" A beam of frost erupted from his fingertips, striking the matriarch directly in her cluster of eyes. Ice crystals spread across her head and she fell away from Wren, shuddering, then going still.

There were still a dozen small spiders surrounding them, and Wren was swaying on her feet, the poison working through her system. Her leather vest was torn at the shoulder, revealing an angry purple-black wound. Her body burned under the skin as the venom spread through it.

"Hold on," the wizard said grimly, positioning himself between her and the approaching brood. "Just hold on." He called his flaming sphere and sent it rolling towards the spiderlings, smashing them.

Wren staggered, barely able to see straight. Lightning sprang from her hands, electrocuting the remaining spiderlings. Then she dropped to all fours, her shoulder screaming with pain. Through her blurred vision, she could see the target. He was staring toward the depths of the cavern.

"The key," he panted. "It's close. There might also... potions, antidotes..." But she could see he'd already forgotten about her. The key was pulling him like a fish on a line.

"Go," she said through gritted teeth. She could tell there was no stopping him anyway. "I will be fine, I can treat this." She rummaged through her pack, pulling out what she needed, and started the process of healing herself.

The target wavered. "Are you certain?" he asked. "The venom from a phase spider matriarch is particularly nasty, and—" But even as he spoke, his feet were already carrying him deeper into the cavern. "I'll be quick," he promised over his shoulder, conjuring a fresh light to guide his way.

Wren watched him go, the dread continuing to rise. The wizard she had been slowly getting to know throughout their journey was gone, replaced by something frightening.

Once she recovered enough to follow him, Wren slowly and painfully descended to the lower level. When she got there, she froze in horror. The wizard had found the key, a dark purple gem. He had already placed it into the book and was preparing to open it. The whispers grew louder, and she heard that screaming again, as if a thousand souls were trapped inside.

Some detached part of her mind studied the fevered intensity of his face in the eldritch light. The sharp angles of concentration, the way his usually gentle mouth had hardened. Even in these extreme conditions, she realized with disturbing clarity, a sketch was forming of this moment when obsession had fully claimed him.

Her hand moved automatically to her knife. The motion was instinctive. Her training held true. "Stop! You don't need to open the book," she tried. "Just do... whatever you do with magical things. Don't open it."

The target looked at her, begging her to understand. "What if it isn't enough? What if the binding prevents me from accessing the full power?"

His eyes met hers, and she read both an apology and a denial there. "I know it’s risky. But I have to try. If there's even a chance this could free me from this constant torment..." Without waiting for her response, his trembling fingers began to open the book. "I'll be careful. I'll maintain control. I promise you."

"Pen-channas!" Wren swore at him in Elvish as he opened the book. Lack-wit.

She heard Father Devane's voice in her head: "There is a difference between intelligence and wisdom, Wren. As clerics, we seek to be wise. We don't seek knowledge for its own sake; instead we seek to understand the effect our choices and actions have upon the world and to measure them accordingly."

As the memory echoed through her mind, she saw the wizard begin to read. But this was not casual study. He appeared to be locked in some kind of battle with the book. His face was strained, tormented. Whatever he struggled against, he won the first battle and turned a page. Maybe, she thought, he was right. Maybe he could control this. She held her breath.

He kept going. With each page he mastered, Wren felt the wizard's control over himself slip. A flickering light shone through his robe where she knew the orb lay. She felt its already chaotic energy become even more unstable. Dread gripped her deep in her gut. He may be winning the battle with the book, but he was losing the war with the orb.

She started to walk. It felt like a dream, as if she walked through a strong current. Her training took over, muscle memory guiding her movements. The knife was already in her hand. When had she drawn it? The enchantments gleamed on its edge, and the words of the protocol echoed in her mind like a mantra: "Touch. Cut. Teleport. Kill. Die."

She found herself standing before the wizard faster than she expected. Standing before the target.

She gripped his arm and slid the knife toward his wrist. The paralysis agent would take effect in seconds. He showed no awareness of what she was doing. He didn't even flinch at her touch.

She slid his sleeve up, revealing his wrist, and brought her knife to the skin, ready to cut. The incantation was ready on her lips.

Her hand didn't move. I don't need to paralyze him, she thought. He doesn't even know what's going on. The target's eyes were locked on the page, his lips moving silently, all of his awareness concentrated on the battle he fought with the book.

She could feel the orb straining free. It no longer sought to devour her magic, it sought to devour everything. It was flickering erratically, the energy building to an unsustainable level. She had no doubt it was time for the protocol. She raised her knife and positioned it to strike right at the carotid artery. He would barely have time to register her betrayal before he was gone.

She opened her lips to speak the incantation, but nothing came. She tried again, choking on the words. What's wrong with you, Wren! She berated herself. This is what she had trained and prepared for endlessly.

The realization hit her when she looked at the target's face. It was the betrayal. If she had told him, if they had agreed on this, she would be offering mercy. By keeping it secret, she offered only treachery.

Why does that matter? she screamed at herself. It was always going to be a betrayal. But he had been a stranger then.

And now? She scolded herself. He is just a target. Even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie. She could call him a target, refuse to speak his name, or refuse to look at him. None of it changed the fact that with his gentle persistence, with his determination to always see the best in her, and with his kindness, he had become a man. He was Gale. He was her friend.

And while she stood there struggling with her own weakness, the wizard found his strength. He won his own battle. Before she could step away, he closed the book. He had mastered it and fed it to the orb.

Their eyes met. She was still standing there. Her hand still held his arm in its strong grip. Her knife was still raised for a killing blow.

The wizard's eyes widened in shock as awareness returned to him. "Wren?" His voice came out raw with confusion. "What are you doing? Were you going to...?" The words died in his throat.

His body went very still. "I don't... I don't understand. What happened? What did I do?" The hurt in his voice was unmistakable. Confusion warred with fear in his eyes as he tried to make sense of why someone he trusted, perhaps the only person he trusted, had a knife to his throat. The look in his eyes was...

"I'm sorry..." Wren said quietly, and she didn't know exactly who she was speaking to. "Mystra, forgive me. I have failed you. I couldn't do it."

She lowered her arm and the knife fell from her hand, clattering to the ground. She ran. She didn't have a destination. She just ran. Away from those eyes. Away from her failure.

Chapter Text

When the Weave itself sought to bind Him to a lesser purpose, there arose one who had watched over Him in shadow, drawn by the light of his crusade. She became his Blessed Champion, pledged to defend Him as he pursued the Sacred Ambition. Thus was the High Aspirant freed to pursue his destined ascension.

— The Tablets of Ascending Glory, Third Canto

Gale

"Wren, wait!" Gale called after her, but she had already disappeared into the shadows of the cavern. He started to follow, then stopped abruptly as her words played back in his mind..

Mystra, forgive me.

The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity. It was no coincidence that a cleric of Mystra had been the one to pull him out of that stone. Her reluctance to talk about herself, and the way she watched him took on different meanings now.

"No," he whispered to the empty cavern

I couldn't do it.

He picked up the fallen knife. The enchantments that laced through it bore the unmistakable signature of the Mother of Magic. Divine power twisted into an instrument of execution. How long had she carried it? How long had she been prepared to use it on him?

She had almost doomed them both along with anyone else in the area. But that was his fault, wasn't it? He hadn't told her everything.. 

Her words from their first meeting came back to him with terrible clarity.

The goddess speaks to one such as myself only when she must. Only when she has orders to give that can't be relayed by any other and cannot be denied.

What orders had she been given, and when?

She has given me no useful orders and offered no help.

No useful orders. Only the order to... The thought drove him to his knees. The rocky ground was hard and unforgiving as he fell, but the pain did not stop his thoughts from following her through the darkness. Wren. Wren, who had meant to kill him. Wren, who had saved him.

He looked down at the cursed tome that had fallen to the floor. Its face seemed to leer at him in mocking triumph. He had mastered it and directed its dark magic into the orb, but at what cost? The orb had calmed for now, but the book hadn't had the powerful effect he'd envisioned. The orb lay pacified, but waiting, its hunger not close to sated. 

He had to find her. Had to explain. Had to... what? Forgive her? Demand answers? Thank her for her weakness? He wasn't even sure himself.

Gale pocketed the knife and made his way back through the abandoned village. The residue of Wren's passage was easy to follow. Her sorcery had left traces. Sparks clung to doorframes, and the scent of ozone marked her trail. 

He found her in an old barn outside the village, far enough off the road for a measure of safety. She had already set up her tent and started a fire, pulling up an empty crate to use as a bench. The crate she had chosen was large enough for two. It had become their habit over the past days of travel to sit together by the fire before retiring. 

The bitter irony of it made him ineffably sad. They had finally found a measure of companionship only to have it all come crashing down. 

She sat motionless on the crate, her entire body rigid. As he approached, the air began to crackle with warning. Lightning danced across her skin in erratic, agitated patterns,  betraying the storm raging beneath her carefully maintained facade.

"Wren." His tried to keep his voice controlled, though his heart was pounding so much he was sure she could hear it. "We need to talk."

"Yes," she said, her voice steady but slightly hoarse. She refused to look at him. "We do."

Gale took a cautious step closer, then stopped as a bright arc of electricity danced across her shoulders. The air between them snapped with her energy, and he could feel the hair on his arms standing on end. 

"I should explain—" he began, then caught himself. "No, that's... that's not right, is it? You're the one who needs to explain."

He held up the knife, its blade catching the firelight. "This isn't just any weapon. The enchantments on it are Mystra's work." The double betrayal cut deep, and he was surprised to find that Wren’s deception hurt him more than Mystra’s orders. "How long, Wren? How long have you been walking beside me with orders to..." He couldn't quite finish the sentence. The words kill me coated his throat like poison.

Gale touched his hand to the orb. "You thought you had to kill me to stop this." He shook his head slowly, his logical mind warring with his wounded heart. "But you're wrong. If you had succeeded back there, if you had actually..."

He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to speak the terrible truth she needed to hear. "My death doesn’t stop this, Wren. My control is the only thing keeping it from blowing up. If you had killed me, everything in the region would have been reduced to ash and crater. The village, the surrounding countryside, anyone unlucky enough to be nearby, including the grove and its inhabitants."

He carefully placed the knife on the ground between them. When the blade touched the ground, he saw her flinch. She made no move to pick it up.

"Whatever you thought you were protecting by raising that blade,” he said, “you were mistaken."

"I wasn't mistaken," she said, and the energy around her began to die, the lightning dimming to sporadic, defeated flickers. "Did you think that Mystra would just let you traipse around freely with the power to level a city? Do you think she doesn't know everything about that nightmare inside you?"

Each question hit him like a slap. He had thought that, hadn’t he? He had thought he’d been utterly forsaken. How naive he had been to think he could simply disappear into obscurity with his burden.

She continued relentlessly, still staring into the fire, her gray eyes like polished steel in the firelight.. "Of course she knew. Of course she made plans. She sent me. Wren, who never says no. Who can't say no." The bitter self-recrimination in her voice made something twist painfully in him. "I have been with you much longer than you know. I have been with you since you returned to Waterdeep with that abomination in you."

A year. An entire year of his life laid bare under her observation. Every lonely evening on his balcony, every moment of despair, catalogued by eyes he'd never known were watching. The violation of it should have made him furious, but instead he felt an odd sort of grief for the man he had been. He’d been so isolated for so long. The fact that someone had witnessed his existence was actually a strange comfort.

She shook her head, a gesture so small and unconscious that he almost missed it. "I followed you from the city. I followed you into the nautiloid. I followed you to the stone."

The nautiloid. She had chosen to board that ship. She had followed him into the belly of that nightmare and subjected herself to the tadpole, the crash, all of it. All to maintain her watch over him. The knowledge sat strangely with his sense of betrayal, adding layers of complexity he didn’t know how to process.

She stood and walked toward him. Every movement was economical and purposeful, the result of years of training that had carved away anything unnecessary. "Mystra gave me a protocol to enact should the worst ever come to pass. As soon as I saw the signs, I was to get to you and make contact." She took hold of his arm, her touch gentle despite the deadly precision of her movements. 

"Cut you with the knife to paralyze and silence you." Her empty hand moved across his wrist with the exact angle and pressure of someone who had practiced this motion countless times.

"Speak the incantation and we would teleport somewhere far away. Somewhere safe." Her face had the blank concentration of someone reciting a well-memorized liturgy. 

"And then..." She raised her hand to the position he had seen when he emerged from his battle with the book. “Boom. No one is hurt. Except for you.”

The casual precision of the demonstration sent a chill down Gale’s spine. She was showing him a choreography of death she had rehearsed extensively. The way she moved through the motions like a deadly dance made him feel inexplicably sad. When had Wren the person been subsumed so completely by Wren the weapon?

"Boom," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked down at his arm where she touched it, imagining the blade sliding across his skin, the paralysis taking hold, the final teleportation to some remote place where his death wouldn't inconvenience anyone.

The betrayal cut deep, but underneath the pain was a growing understanding of Wren’s impossible position. She hadn't chosen this role. It had been forced on her by a goddess who saw mortals as pieces on a game board. And yet... she had carried that knife for a year, and had coldly prepared herself to end his life with clinical efficiency.

"Mystra's mercy," he said bitterly. "Though I suppose from her perspective, it is merciful. Save the many by sacrificing the one. Very pragmatic of her." The words burned like acid in his mouth, each syllable a rejection of the deity he had once served with such devotion. How many times had he praised her wisdom? How often had he justified her actions to others?

She still wouldn't meet his gaze. Even now, she was protecting herself from the compassion that had undone her mission. He wouldn’t let her. He needed to know what she really felt..

"But you didn't do it." He took a half-step closer. "Back there, in that cave, when every instinct and order told you to act, you stopped."

He paused, studying her carefully. Her shoulders were set like someone braced for a blow. Her expression was perfectly blank.. She gave away nothing. He couldn’t read in her what he really needed to know.

"Why, Wren? What stopped you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks very much like you chose to defy a goddess for..." He paused, his eyes searching her face. "For what?"

She turned from him and went back to her place by the fire, but she didn't sit. Instead, she stood like a sentinel, straight and unyielding. The lightning around her had faded to barely visible flickers, as if her storm magic was exhausted.

"When you opened the book, I could feel it." She pressed her hand to her own chest, as if she had actually felt his orb's instability in her own body. "You were losing control. The orb was breaking free. I wouldn't have tried if I wasn't certain."

He could see her jaw work as she struggled with words that didn't want to come. "I started to do it, but I couldn’t finish. Not when you didn't know." Each word came out slowly, with visible effort. "It was a betrayal. I couldn't do it like that. Not when I had come to..."

She stopped, and he could see her struggle, trying to release words she’d become accustomed to holding back. "I had..."

The words remained trapped behind years of conditioning that had taught her not to want, and not to feel.. The words died in her throat, and he watched her struggle to voice what she couldn't allow herself to feel.

Her voice trailed off and she opened her pack instead. She pulled out a leatherbound book Gale had never seen before. She walked over to him and held it out. When he reached to take it, he saw her fingers tighten slightly, just for a moment, then she let it slide out of her hands..

He examined the book. It was worn and well-used, its pages thick with dark marks and smudges along the edges. The leather was soft from frequent handling, and he could see where her fingers had worn smooth spots from repeated touch.

Once he was holding the book, she turned and walked back towards her tent. After a few steps, she stopped, her back still to him. When she spoke, it had the tone of someone delivering a final report.

"I understand if you don't want to travel with me anymore. But I still belong to Mystra and her mission still stands. Besides the protocol she gave me, she also bid me to protect you, to keep you safe. I intend to continue that, whether you want it or not."

She stood very still, her shoulders set in rigid lines. "If you leave me, I will follow you. I will not try to rejoin you, but I will keep watch over you. I will protect you. And if you need it, you can call for me and I will come to end it mercifully. Safely."

The loneliness in those words cut through his anger and confusion. She was offering to become his ghost, his guardian angel, watching over him from a distance while cutting herself off from any possibility of connection or companionship. She was sentencing herself to a half-life of isolation, just as he had once done.

She never turned to look at him, she just spoke in that low voice of hers. "If you want to be rid of me completely, you'll have to kill me." In her voice was both a challenge and a dare, as if she would welcome and accept it if he did. 

She stopped one more time as she reached the tent, her hand on the flap. "Goodnight, Gale," she said before crawling in and shutting him out.

He realized with a start that it was the first time she had spoken his name. Not "wizard" or "you," but "Gale."  He stood frozen in place, the leatherbound book heavy in his hands. The way she'd said it sounded final and that caused an unexpected grief to flare in him despite everything that had been revealed tonight. 

With trembling fingers, Gale opened the book. The first page made him pause. It was a sketch, rough and impersonal, of a figure on a balcony. Him. He recognized his tower, the way he'd stood countless evenings staring out at the sea, lost in contemplation of his failures and regrets. This was Wren's work? He had never seen her draw, never had an inkling that she had any pursuit aside from her singleminded dedication to her duty.

He turned the page, his breath catching. Another drawing, this one more detailed, more carefully rendered. Then another. Page after page of himself, captured in moments he'd never known were being observed. Each sketch was more refined than the last.

He had to stop, closing the book for a moment and pressing it against his chest. She had been watching him, but she had also been seeing him. Enough to capture details he wasn't even conscious of displaying.

When he opened it again, he forced himself to continue more slowly. There were other subjects too, scattered throughout the pages. An elf with kind eyes and a face marked by gentle sorrow. He guessed that was Father Devane, the mentor she'd mentioned with such a complex mix of feeling in her voice. Scenes from Waterdeep: market vendors hawking their wares, children playing in fountain squares, the joyous face of a bard playing a merry tune on her violin. These were the observations of someone who found beauty in ordinary moments.

He had to pause again when he reached the sketches from their recent travels. Arabella clinging to her mother after being reunited, relief and love radiating from both figures. A scene from the Grove showing the handsome bladesman teaching the tiefling children to fight, their faces bright with determination and hope. These weren't the strategic observations of a spy. This was the work of someone who saw the world and wanted to preserve its meaningful moments.

Most of the sketches were still of him. Here was his face in profile, rendered with such careful attention that he knew exactly what he was thinking in that moment. There, his hands as he cast a simple cantrip, the precise placement of his fingers captured in perfect detail. It wasn’t just the movement of his hands, she had somehow communicated the pleasure he took in the act of making magic.

And his eyes... gods, the way she'd drawn his eyes. When he looked at her sketches, he saw all the things he wanted to be, but had never been certain others could see. She had not just observed him; she had studied him.

He had to close the book again. The progression was heartbreaking in its clarity. The early sketches were the detached work of someone killing time on a tedious assignment. But as the pages turned, she'd begun to notice the way he touched his chest when the orb pained him, the slight smile he got when he was absorbed in an interesting thought, the way weariness and loneliness appeared in his eyes when he thought no one was watching.

When he forced himself to continue, the most recent sketches took his breath away entirely. Himself by their campfire, features softened by firelight. In battle, hair whipping in magical winds, power crackling around him like a crown of stars. His face again, filled with righteous fury—was that after Nettie? 

Then a drawing that made his eyes burn as he looked at it. Himself laughing, head thrown back in unguarded joy, his whole face transformed by happiness. When had she seen him like that? Or had she simply come to know him well enough to imagine what it might look like? To wish the scene into being with her charcoal?

In every image, she'd included it. The orb was drawn as a black void on his chest, a hungry darkness that seemed to pulse even in charcoal and parchment. She'd felt it and understood it well enough to know exactly how dangerous he was. Yet still she'd drawn him like someone worth understanding. Like someone worth staying close to, despite the risk.

"Oh, Wren," he whispered to the night air. "What has she done to us?"

Here was the true story of her year-long vigil. The slow transformation from duty to something far more dangerous. She had been sent to watch a target, to be ready to destroy a threat. Instead, she had discovered a man. And in discovering him, she had doomed herself to an impossible choice.

He understood now why the words wouldn't come when she tried to explain what had stopped her. How could she put into words the story that these drawings told with such devastating clarity? Somewhere in those long months of watching, of following, of preparing to kill, she had begun to care. Perhaps more than care. Perhaps she had fallen into something that her conditioning told her she had no right to feel, something that had ultimately saved both their lives.

And he... gods help him, looking at these images of himself through her eyes, he felt something crack open deep inside him. Something that felt dangerously like the possibility of being truly known by another person, a possibility he’d long given up.

The tent remained silent and dark, but he could sense Wren’s wakefulness within. She was probably lying there expecting him to pack up and leave, to place the book on the crate and walk away into the night. It would be the rational response. She had betrayed his trust, deceived him, and prepared to murder him. 

But how could he leave? She had shown him her heart laid bare in charcoal. She had chosen to feel despite a lifetime of conditioning that taught her feeling was weakness. She had chosen mercy and defied the divine authority that had shaped her entire existence.

Gale closed the sketchbook carefully, holding it against his chest. Tomorrow, they would have to talk again. Really talk, with all the cards finally on the table. But tonight...

Tonight he would sit here and try to reckon with the gift she'd given him. Through her eyes, he saw himself not as a walking catastrophe but as someone worthy of attention. Perhaps even worthy of... dare he think it?

No, he didn't dare finish that thought completely. Not yet. But one truth came through with crystal clarity: She had chosen him over her goddess. Their goddess. She had watched him in his loneliness and isolation and found something worth preserving. And when the moment came to destroy him, she had not, even though it might destroy her.

And that changed everything.

Chapter Text

"And lo, the Blade of Stars turned in the hand of she who forged it, for even the gods are not immune to the righteous justice of insurrection. Thus did the Rebel Saint teach us: wield thy weapons carefully, for they are easily turned against their masters." 

—The Cacophonous Codex, Book of Blades

Wren

The next morning, Wren emerged from her tent to find that both her sketchbook and the knife had been left nearby during the night. She carefully placed the sketchbook in her pack and sheathed the knife at her back. She was starting to dismantle her tent when she caught the scent of coffee.

Wren froze, her hands on the tent stakes. She could hear the campfire crackling and the sound of bacon sizzling in a pan.

She turned around and there he was. Gale. Not "the target" anymore. That attempt at distance had crumbled along with everything else the night before. Just Gale, kneeling by the fire, tending their breakfast as if nothing had changed.

She stood, dropping her pack to the ground. She tentatively approached the fire as if she was seeing an illusion or a ghost. Her normally stony face looked uncertain

Gale looked up and went still as he saw her approach. For a while, they simply stared at each other. "Good morning," he said finally, his voice neutral. "I took the liberty of making breakfast. Coffee's ready too. It's strong, the way you like it."

He's nervous, she realized. 

He gestured toward a mug sitting on the crate, then he turned back to the bacon. "I hope you got some rest," he continued. His voice was slightly higher than normal. He’s definitely nervous, Wren thought. 

"We have much to discuss, I think.” He continued talking but kept his attention focused on the bacon. “But first, food. I find difficult conversations go better on a full stomach." When he glanced up again, he spoke to her like a man trying to tame a wild animal. "Please, sit. You look like you're about to bolt again, and I'd rather you didn't. Not yet."

The gentleness in his tone drew her toward the fire. Father Devane had used that same careful cadence when coaxing her back from one of her rages as a child. 

As Wren approached, her whole face was a question. Nothing in her life had prepared her for kindness after betrayal. She picked up the mug of coffee and gave it an experimental sniff, then sighed as she inhaled the rich aroma.

She took a sip, then looked down at the half-loaf of bread that sat on the crate. She gave it an experimental squeeze, checking how stale it was, then picked up the knife sitting beside it and started slicing.

He made breakfast, she thought. After everything I told him, after what I nearly did to him, he made me coffee. Strong. He'd even remembered that.

"Thank you, Gale," she said, taking another sip of her coffee. The name felt strange on her tongue.

"You're quite welcome," he replied, flipping the bacon with perhaps more attention than it strictly required. There was something bizarre about this moment, but it somehow suited them. Just two people casually sharing breakfast the morning after one of them had tried to kill the other.

He transferred the bacon to a plate and set the pan aside. Then he settled himself across the fire from her and accepted a slice of bread from her. For a while, he sat and cradled his mug of coffee, watching the steam rise. Then he spoke again.

"I won't pretend I'm not hurt. Angry, even." He chose each word carefully. "Learning that you’ve been spied on, lied to, and almost..." He paused, taking a breath. "Well. It's a lot to absorb."

She just sat there. This situation was unlike anything she’d ever faced. She had no idea how to react to it. 

"I've thought about it all night,” he continued, “and I find myself in the peculiar position of understanding that this wasn't exactly your choice. And that when you did finally make a choice, you made it in my favor."

He's trying to make sense of this, she realized. Just like I am.

She looked at him and a soft breeze ruffled through their hair. It was gentle now, not a storm wind. The electricity that had crackled around her the night before was absent, replaced by something quieter.

"I thought you would be gone this morning," she said. "Why would you stay after what I did?" Then she hesitated, uncertain. "If you are going to stay, I mean. Are you?"

Gale set down his coffee. His brow furrowed, and he pressed his lips together as if holding back words. He shook his head as he argued with himself silently.

"I am staying," he said finally, with a hint of reluctance. "Though I'll be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure why."

He picked up a piece of bacon, then set it down again without eating it. He looked conflicted. "I’m not entirely innocent either, am I? I've been keeping my own secrets,” he conceded. “The fact that you already knew them doesn't change the fact that I tried to keep them." 

Another pause, longer this time. When he spoke again, he sounded puzzled. "I find I'd rather stay with you than go it alone. Even after everything. Even knowing what I know now."

Oh, I see, thought Wren. He doesn't want to be alone. Of course. He needed companionship, and he thought she was his only option. 

"You know..." she offered, choosing her words carefully. "I am fairly certain there are other survivors. I saw at least two after the crash. They must have made their way to the Grove. You could go back and find them. You wouldn't have to be alone."

She hesitated, then continued. "I know I said I would follow you, but there's another way I could protect you. You could go back to the Grove and shelter there with the others. I will go on alone to find Halsin. Alone is how I usually work, anyway."

She took another drink of her coffee then looked down at the ground, unable to meet his eyes. "I owe this to you."

Gale set his mug down with enough force that coffee sloshed over the rim. Wren started at the unexpected movement.

"No." The word came out sharp. "No, that's... that's not what I want." He blinked, surprised by his own reaction. 

Wren just looked at him, confused. She had not expected … this.

"I..." He paused, trying to collect himself. His hands were shaking now, slight but visible. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to... it's just … you going off alone into that goblins' nest..." He shook his head firmly. "No. Absolutely not." He spoke as if he was still working out his own thoughts and feelings, trying to understand them as much as explain them.

"It's not just that I don't want to be alone, Wren. Though I'll admit that's part of it." His voice grew more thoughtful. "I don't like the idea of you being alone. Even after everything you've told me, even knowing what you were sent to do... I still…" He trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. 

This left Wren completely off-balance. Part of her wanted to believe him, part of her insisted it had to be some kind of strategy, and another part of her was just confused.

He picked up his coffee again, holding it like an anchor against the current of his own unexpected emotions. "There's something else. Something practical. I may need that protocol of yours. I don't want to be a danger to innocent people."

"That is truly what you want?" Wren asked, needing the confirmation. Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended.

"I know it sounds mad," he said, with a laugh that held no real humor, "choosing to travel with someone who carries a knife with your name on it. But yes, against all odds, that's what I want."

He set down his coffee and leaned forward slightly, his words coming faster. "Look, I've spent the better part of a year alone in my tower, Wren. Alone with my thoughts, my regrets, and this..." He gestured toward his chest. " It nearly drove me to madness. The isolation, the constant fear of losing control."

His expression softened slightly. "Traveling with you, even with all the secrets between us, has been the first time in months that I've felt human again. Like I'm more than just a walking disaster."

He's not lying, she thought, examining his face. Every word is true. 

He paused, his next words carefully chosen. "Despite everything, I trust you. You had me in a position where you easily could have completed your mission. Perhaps should have," he admitted, acknowledging the terrible risk in what he'd done. "But you didn't. For my sake."

He picked up a piece of bread, picking crumbs from it absently. "So yes. Mad as it may sound, I want you to stay. I want us to see this through together, assuming you're not going to turn around and put your knife in me unexpectedly."

She studied him, trying to read the layers of meaning in his expression. "I want to stay too." The admission surprised her with its truth. "For what it's worth, I am not going to kill you. Not unless you ask me."

Gale's shoulders relaxed. "That is considerably more reassuring than one would expect," he said, managing a genuine smile for the first time since she'd emerged from her tent. Suddenly, something else occurred to him. "Has Mystra... have you... heard from her?"

Wren shook her head. "No," she answered. "If she knows what happened, she has chosen to remain silent. That place... it was dedicated to Lolth, judging by the journals left behind. Perhaps Mystra's vision couldn't penetrate Lolth's domain. Perhaps she doesn't know of my failure."

Gale nodded. "If she did punish you," he said hesitantly, "what would you do?" There was an intensity in his eyes, and Wren realized that what he asked was exactly what he had experienced after the orb. This question was much more than idle curiosity for him.

She pointed at her temple, where the tadpole curled. "Focus on this." 

He wasn’t satisfied with that answer. His voice grew firmer, more insistent. "Let's say you found a cure, that it was taken care of. Then what would you do?"

She shook her head. "I don't know." But of course, she did know. She would finish what she had started more than a century ago. She would finally find the freedom she had craved all her life, the only way she could.

She couldn't tell him that, there was too much he didn't know. He wouldn't understand the why of it. All of it crowded behind her lips, wanting to come out. She suddenly wanted to tell him all the things he had tried to pry out of her, but it was too much all at once, so she fell silent.

He must have read something in her face, because he looked concerned. He took a bite of bread, chewing thoughtfully, and for a second the only sounds were the small pops of the fire and the distant call of a hawk.

"You know," he changed the subject, "this whole situation is rather unprecedented, isn't it? I don't imagine there are many etiquette guides for 'how to proceed when your traveling companion was sent to assassinate you but decided she'd rather not.'"

"Perhaps we should start fresh. Clear the air entirely." He stood, brushing crumbs from his robes, and turned to face her with theatrical formality. "Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Gale of Waterdeep. Wizard, former Chosen of Mystra, and current host to a rather troublesome magical affliction. I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

He extended his hand toward her with a small, hopeful smile, the gesture both earnest and slightly ridiculous. "And you are?"

Wren just stared at him. The gesture was so completely unexpected, that it took her a while to process it. Then she realized this was just... him. He was trying to give them both a clean start in the only way he knew how. She stood and took the hand that hovered between them, accepting the gift he offered her. 

Her grip was firm despite her confusion. "I am Wren,” she offered. “I am a cleric of Mystra. She sent me to protect you and keep you safe. She also sent me to ensure that if the orb that lies within you detonates, it does so safely."

It was the introduction he should have had. The one he deserved.

Gale's face brightened as she took his hand, and he shook it. The smile that spread across his features was a bit boyish. "It is good to finally meet you, Wren," he replied. When she released his hand, he settled back down by the fire and picked up his bacon, his appetite restored.

Wren took a deep breath. He had offered her the gift of starting over; perhaps she should offer him something in return. She finished off her bacon and that gave her the courage to continue. "Would you like to know why I was given to Mystra?" 

He looked up at her unexpected offering, both surprised and intrigued.. "I would very much like to know," he said, his voice gentle and encouraging.. He cradled his coffee between his hands as she began. 

She reached back into her memory. "I was raised and trained by the Knights of the Blue Moon, but I'm not really one of them. I belong only to Mystra. I was kept with the Order to train, and to keep me safe and hidden until I was old enough to protect myself."

She settled into the memory. "All I know about my history is this: my father was a trader from a powerful family of Evermeet. My mother was a scholar of the arcane like yourself, and a devotee of Mystra."

The morning breeze stirred the fire between them and the flames bowed and bent in the current. "It was my father’s family that carried the sorcerous bloodline," she gestured to herself. "Babes with the bloodline are few in his family now. Any that are born with lightning in their veins are chained and controlled by the patriarchs. They live out their days as slaves to the family trading ships. Pampered slaves, but still slaves."

The smile faded from Gale's face and his hands tightened around his mug.

Wren barely noticed. She was pulled completely into her story. Her voice faraway as she spoke of things she kept locked away in the deepest chambers of her heart.

"I don’t know why they decided to have me at all. Maybe they didn’t intend to, or maybe they thought they could cheat fate. All I know is that when she was with child, my mother went to the temple of Mystra and offered her unborn child to the goddess if it was born with the bloodline. Her gift was accepted. That gift was me."

Her gray eyes glinted like polished steel in the morning light. "I'm afraid I was a poor gift. I really was a troublesome child. All the knights and clerics wanted was to teach and guide me, and all I did was rage at them, fight them, and try to run. I ran away every chance I got. Until I didn't anymore."

Gale listened in complete silence, his coffee growing cold in his hands. "What made you stop? You said you ran until you didn't anymore. What changed?"

Her face grew grim, the softness of memory replaced by something harder and more guarded. "At seventeen, I was told that I would complete my basic training within a year. Among my people, I would have still been considered a young child, but there was no time for childhood in the Halls of Reflected Moonlight. This rush to adulthood made the years that stretched before me seem endless. So I did what I always did when confronted with the reality of my life. I ran away. This time I made it all the way to Waterdeep."

The air around her grew electric. "By now, my father's family had learned of my existence, and they were waiting and watching. They had spies and powerful enchantments. I had barely made it past the docks when one of my uncles and his pack of goons grabbed me and put me in chains." She watched Gale's face change as she spoke, his eyebrows drawing together in a scowl.

Sparks flitted around her hands like angry fireflies. "The chains blocked my magic. I couldn't use it unless they gave me permission. I would have been put on a ship that day, and never left it, but I was lucky, Father Devane was close on my trail, with some of the knights. They were able to rescue me and take me back."

The look on Gale's face was thunderous now. 

She shook her head and the sparks snapped out, leaving only the scent of ozone in the air, sharp and clean. "That was the last time I ran. I realized then that there was no freedom for me in this life. My only choice was which chains I wore. I stopped running and I stopped fighting. Then, I stopped trying to be a person and became what I was always destined to be. A weapon in the hands of forces greater than myself."

She stopped there. She couldn't bring herself to tell him what her true final escape attempt had looked like, how the goddess had made clear that even death was only available at her command.

Gale was quiet for a while after she finished, his hands clenched into fists in his lap. "Chains that block magic," he said finally, and there was a tremor of fury beneath the words. "To do that to anyone, let alone a child, it's monstrous. Magic is life to those of us who wield it. To cut someone off from it..." 

He shook his head."No wonder you stopped fighting. When every door leads to a cage, what point is there in running?"

He leaned forward slightly, his expression almost pleading. "But Wren, you are still a person. The woman who chose to defy a goddess, who sketches moments of beauty, who stood up to Kagha for a frightened child... that woman is not a weapon. She's someone who never stopped caring, no matter how hard they tried to beat it out of her."

The words sent a confusing rush through her and she fought it away. "Don't you understand yet?" she asked him, and there was frustration in her voice."They didn't beat it out of me, I did. I don't want to be a person. I tried to be a person and all it brought was pain and rage and sadness. It is easier not to be a person."

She paused, her fingers drumming on the wooden crate, and when she spoke again her voice was quieter, like someone admitting to a weakness. "At least it was," she said. "It is very hard not to be a person with someone like you around, always saying these things..."

Always making me feel things. 

Gale blinked at that. "Someone like me," he repeated to himself. Then he looked at her with a sheepish smile. "I'm not entirely certain whether that's a compliment or an accusation."

"It's both," she replied, matter-of-factly. 

"I think I do understand, actually. More than you might expect." He gestured vaguely toward his chest. "I spent the better part of a year trying very hard not to be a person myself. Shutting myself away, avoiding all contact."

His expression grew more introspective. "But Wren, being a person isn't something you can simply decide not to be. It's what you are, whether you want it or not. The caring, the rage, the sadness. Those don't disappear when you bury them."

He thinks he understands, but he doesn’t. She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts, trying to find the angle to make him see her reality. "Let me ask you something, Gale. If we somehow manage to make it out of this situation alive, what do you plan to do?"

Gale paused, his coffee mug halfway to his lips. He set it down slowly, his expression growing distant and thoughtful. "I..." He started, then stopped. His eyes went unfocused for a moment. "You know, I've been so focused on simply surviving each day that I haven't given much thought to after."

As usual, he worked his way to the answer by talking it out. "Before all this, my entire world revolved around Mystra. My studies, my ambitions, my sense of self. It was all in service to her, or in pursuit of her favor. When she cast me aside..." He shrugged. "All I could think about was getting back what I had before."

His gaze found Wren's across the fire. "But lately, I find myself thinking about simple things. Cooking a proper meal in my own kitchen. Reading to Tara by the fireplace. Perhaps even taking on an apprentice or two and passing on what knowledge I can before..." He gestured vaguely at his chest, the unfinished thought hanging heavy in the air.

"What about you?" he asked, turning the question back to her with genuine curiosity. "Do you ever imagine what you might want, if you could choose freely?"

"No,” she said sharply. “ That is just what I'm trying to tell you. You could plan to do anything. You could go home, you could cook a meal, you could read to your friend. You could try to fly to the moon if you wanted."

Her voice grew more agitated as she spoke, trying to communicate what others could never understand. The words came faster, harder, edged with old pain. "I cannot imagine what I would do, or what I want because it will not come to pass. I do what the goddess wills, nothing more and nothing less. Imagining anything else will only lead to disappointment."

She picked at the crate she sat on, her fingers worrying at the rough wood, trying to find the right words. The memories crowded in of all the times she'd dared to hope, to dream, to want something for herself, and the crushing disappointment that had followed.

"I spent my whole childhood imagining what I would do if I could do anything. It brings nothing but hurt and anger. It ends with me destroying the furniture and having to make amends, or trying to run and having to be brought back, or trying to fight three full-grown knights and getting silenced and sent to my room to meditate. That is how my dreams and my imaginings always end. With bitter disappointment and rage."

Then she relented a bit, her voice softening as she looked at him, and for a moment her mask slipped enough to show the pain beneath. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, I really do. But please... It only leads to pain. That's all it's ever done. I think... I hope... that you want to be my friend. If you do, accept me as I am. Please."

Don't try to fix me, she thought. Just... let me be what I am.

Gale's face softened, and he nodded. She watched the fight go out of him. He leaned back slightly, giving her space. "You're right," he said, and there was no disappointment in it, just acceptance. "I do push, don't I? I was trying to fix something that can't be fixed, at least not in the way I imagined. And I do want to be your friend, Wren. Very much so."

He means it, she realized. He actually means it.

He was silent for a while, and then he came back with a new question. "So the question I asked you before... if Mystra cut you off, what would you do? Your family... that's why you don't know."

"Yes," she replied. "They would be waiting. But I lied when I said I didn't know. I know exactly what I would do. If Mystra cut me off, I would do what she forbids me to do. I would leave this life of chains for the next. I would be free."

The words came out easily, like a blade so sharp it cuts before you feel it. She watched him understand what she was saying. He stared at her, horrorstruck, his face going pale. "This is what you risked, for me?"

She laughed, bitterly, the sound harsh in the morning air. "My life is not worth much to me. My honor is worth much more."

He was quiet for a long time. "Wren..." He paused, struggling with the words. "Your life... it has worth beyond what you can see right now." He leaned forward. "You speak of honor, and I understand that. But there's something else I need you to understand."

She had to look away, unable to meet his gaze. This was too much, too overwhelming. No one had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her now.

He gestured between them, his voice growing stronger, more certain. "Your life may not be worth much to you, but it is worth something to me. I said I wanted to be your friend, and as the price of that friendship, I accept you as you are. If you want to be my friend, your price is to accept that there is someone who values you. Someone who cares what happens to you. Someone who will hurt if you are hurt and will hurt even more if you throw your life away."

Her breathing quickened, her pulse racing. Part of her wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong. But part of her wanted desperately to believe him.

He raised his coffee mug again, though it had long since gone cold. "So. Friends, then?"

She stared at him. No one had ever said such words to her before. She didn't know what to do with them. But if he was prepared to pay the price for friendship, so was she.

She raised her own mug to his. "Friends."

Chapter Text

"Know this truth, ye faithful: the hungers of Ambition burn without cease, consuming all in their path. Yet even the most ravenous flame may be challenged by Rebellion's bright spark.

When Ambition devours, Rebellion dares to strike back. But when Rebellion burns, Ambition feeds the flame. Thus they are bound. Hunger and defiance, the fire and the storm, forever locked in their eternal dance."

—The Gospel of the Twin Spark, Verse XII (Apocryphal)

Gale

The next few days passed in a blur. They trudged through the ruined countryside, every now and then encountering goblin scouts or cultists. They tried their best to get past these encounters by playing the part of True Souls, but they couldn’t avoid a few fights.  

Today, the groups had grown more frequent and they guessed they were close to the goblin camp. They had been walking for the better part of the day when Gale first felt the stirring in his chest. At first, he tried to dismiss it. Surely it was too soon for the orb to be making demands again. The Necromancy of Thay had been more potent than anything he'd consumed in months. It should have been more than sufficient to sate the infernal thing for weeks, if not months.

He tried to ignore it at first, but the discomfort got stronger as they walked.. The orb began to gnaw at him from within. Each step felt harder to take. He pressed his hand to his chest as if he could suppress the turmoil inside somehow.

"This can't be right," he muttered. Another sharp pang shot through him and he had to steady himself against a nearby tree.

The orb pulsed, once, then twice, so hard it made his vision blur. His breathing became shallow and he fought to control it, not wanting to alarm Wren. He tried to pull himself together, but he could feel sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. He couldn’t keep up with Wren’s brisk pace anymore. 

"Wren," he called out, trying not to let his distress show too much. "I think we may need to find somewhere to rest sooner than anticipated."

Wren turned toward him and he saw her expression change as she took in his face. Despite his efforts, he must look every bit as bad as he felt. Her eyes went immediately to his chest. She felt it too. . 

She rushed to his side immediately. "Gale, what's wrong? You look..." Her eyes remained fixed on his chest.

She assessed the area with a quick scan, then took his arm and placed it over her shoulders, supporting his weight. "Come," she said, "let's find you a place to rest." He leaned into her, embarrassed by having to accept her support, but grateful nonetheless. 

Once she'd led him to a copse dense enough to hide them from the road, she helped him sit on a suitably flat rock. "Now," she said, "tell me what's happening." She looked at his chest. "I can feel it. It feels hungry. But I thought... you said..."

Gale plopped onto the rock, his legs shaky from the short walk. The orb now felt like a serpent coiled within him, striking repeatedly. His vision clouded with the pain as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

"I don't understand it," he said, his voice strained. "The book should have sustained me for months, Wren. It was more powerful than anything I've fed to this accursed thing since..." He trailed off, shaking his head. The only thing more potent it had consumed was his own magical reserves, back at the beginning.

Another pulse from the orb made him double over with a sharp exhale. Fear washed through him. His eyes went to Wren's dark leather vest, wondering if she still carried that knife at her back. 

"It's like..." He struggled to find the words. "The book was a rainstorm that should have doused the fire, but instead it made the flames hungrier."

He could see worry creeping into Wren's normally stoic face. Her eyes kept darting between his face and his chest. She was right to be worried. "Something's changed, Wren. The orb feels stronger, more demanding. And if it's not satisfied..."

He looked at her, not trying to hide his distress anymore. "I fear what might happen if we can't find something to appease it soon. The hunger is becoming difficult to ignore."

Wren immediately tore off the gloves she wore. "I took these from that necromancer's house. They bear an enchantment. It's not nearly as powerful as that book, but perhaps they can ease it enough..."

She pushed the gloves into his hands, and as he took them, his fingers brushed against hers. It was the first time she had touched him without gloves on. Her fingers were rough and calloused, but warm against his. Feeling the touch of another person steadied him almost as much as being given something to appease the orb’s hunger. 

"Thank you," he gasped. He pressed the gloves to his chest, closing his eyes as he felt for the enchantment woven into the leather. It was modest magic, but it was magic.

The orb responded immediately. Gale's back arched as the orb reached its spectral claws through his very soul. The magic from the gloves flowed into him, devoured by the void in his chest. 

As the enchantment unravelled, his breathing eased. The sharp, clawing ache dulled to a throb. As the last traces of the enchantment were consumed, Gale realized with growing dread that it wasn't enough. "It's..." He opened his eyes, looking at Wren with a mixture of relief and despair. "It helped, but it's like offering the smallest handful of water to a man dying of thirst."

He dropped the remains of the gloves. "Whatever's happening to the orb, I fear it's going to demand far more than trinkets and artifacts can provide." He looked down at the ground, defeated. "I don't know how long I can keep it contained."

While he spoke, Wren was still staring at the spot on Gale's chest where the orb hid under the skin. Her eyes always found it, even through his robes. He remembered how she had drawn it, this thing that wasn’t visible from the outside. She could feel it somehow. With her magic, he assumed, but she never spoke of it.

Suddenly and without warning, she reached out and placed her hand directly over the orb, her palm spread firmly over his chest.

The moment she touched it, Gale felt the orb surge to meet her. It reached out from him like a living thing, latching onto her. He could feel it snaking into her, sucking at the magic in her blood. That magic rose instinctively to fight it and lightning crackled down her arm in brilliant arcs that were immediately absorbed into the void in his chest.

Horror flooded through Gale. He could see the pain etched across her face as she gritted her teeth, trying to endure the orb's assault. If the orb continued to drain her at this rate, it would consume her entirely within a few minutes. 

"Wren, no!" He grabbed her wrist, and yanked her hand away from his chest. The sudden severing of the connection sent a shock through both of them. The orb pulsed with rage at being denied its feast.

"What were you thinking?" he gasped. His heart raced with terror as he held her hand firmly away from him. He could see the pain still written on her face. She was fighting to control her breathing, and the sight of her filled him with unbearable guilt. "Wren, listen to me," he said urgently. "You must never do that again. Never. Do you understand me?"

Wren looked at his hand around her wrist, then at him. "I thought..." she started and then shook her head, "No, I didn't think, obviously. I just wanted to help." She shuddered at the memory of it. "I can feel it all the time, how hungry it is. I thought maybe if I gave it what it wanted..."

He forced himself to soften his grip on her wrist, but he didn't let go. "When it first took hold in me,” he explained, “it drained the majority of my power in moments. I only survived because of the sheer amount of magic I commanded then. But you..." He faltered. "It would have consumed you entirely. I won't lose you to this thing, Wren. I won't."

In response, she did that thing he was beginning to recognize. She looked at his shoulder rather than his eyes when discussing anything that involved her feelings. "Because you have asked, I will not do it again. But Gale, the alternative..." She didn't say it. They both knew what the solution was if the orb became impossible to control. "We will think of something else," she concluded instead.

Gale lowered her wrist slowly, but some part of him didn’t want to let go. Realizing there was no further reason to keep hold of her after her agreement, he reluctantly released her. "You wanted to help," he repeated. "Thank you. Truly. But Wren, what you felt, that hunger you described..."

He sought her eyes, but she wouldn't meet them. "That was barely a taste. When you touched it, I could feel how eagerly it reached for you, how readily it would have drained every spark of magic from your being." The memory made him feel sick. "That's dangerous, Wren. More dangerous than I think you realize."

He sighed. "We will think of something else," he agreed, echoing her words with quiet determination. "But if we can't..." He swallowed hard. "Promise me you won't sacrifice yourself trying to appease it. Whatever happens, whatever choice needs to be made, promise me that much."

She froze at his request, and her face shut down. Her expression went neutral. She was keeping something from him, something important. "Gale..." she pleaded, and he could hear the conflict in her voice.

"Promise me, Wren," he demanded. He wasn't leaving this spot until she said the words he needed to hear. He wanted to press, to unravel whatever secret she was keeping, but he knew that pushing too hard would only make her retreat further.

"I promise I won't try to appease the orb that way again," she said, looking at his shoulder again.

Gale studied her. Unease prickled along his spine. She was limiting her promise in a way that suggested there were other options she wasn't ruling out. "That's not quite what I asked for, is it?" he said.. At that moment, the orb sent a wave of discomfort through him that was so strong he doubled over slightly. Perhaps it was the pain that stopped him, or perhaps it was simply knowing that if he pushed hard enough, Wren would run from it and he needed her right now.

He rubbed his temple, feeling tired and resigned. "Very well. I'll accept your promise as you've given it. For now." The exhaustion was weighing on him now and the light was beginning to fade. "We should find somewhere to make camp soon. We'll both need rest if we're to face whatever tomorrow brings."

Wren scanned their surroundings. "This spot is not safe to camp. Let's find somewhere farther from the road. Will you be all right to walk a bit longer?" Her impassive expression had melted away, and now she showed genuine concern.

Gale quickly assessed his condition. The pain had dulled enough to be manageable, if barely. "Yes," he said, pushing himself up from the rock. "I can manage a bit further. You're quite right. We're too close to the road, and we've already encountered enough of the Absolute's faithful for one day."

He took a moment to steady himself, then looked at her with a wan smile. "Lead the way." As he took a tentative first step, he added, "Thank you, Wren. That was a foolish, dangerous thing you did, but I appreciate that you were trying to help. It means a lot, having someone who actually gives a damn what happens to me." He hadn’t intended to say that last thing, but perhaps exhaustion had worn down his defenses. Anyway, it was the truth.

"Of course," was all she said in reply, but what she lacked in words, she made up for in action. As they set off to look for a suitable camp, she stayed close, always ready to catch him if he stumbled or offer an arm if he needed it. 

Eventually, she found them a sufficiently remote spot. They sheltered in a circle of stones that may once have been a watchtower or grain silo, but was now little more than a ring of crumbling walls. It was just large enough for both of their tents, and the walls just high enough to light a fire without being visible unless someone came very near. 

They quickly set up camp, shared a sparse meal of dried meats and fruits, and retreated to their tents. Try as he might to relax, sleep eluded Gale. When he laid down, the orb seemed to press against his ribs, making each breath feel labored. He tried to read a book he'd picked up along their travels, but the words swam before his eyes.

Eventually, he gave up and crept out to stand by the fire. The orb was less agitated, but not calmed by Wren’s attempts the way it once would have been. All he could think about was the knife at Wren's back. Did he have the strength to ask her to use it? How would he know when it was time?

"Gale?" a voice behind him asked, "Is everything okay?"

He stopped, startled. He realized he'd been pacing frantically in the small space like a caged animal. He must have pulled her from her reverie with his agitation. "Wren, I..." He immediately stopped pacing. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I was trying to be quiet."

He gestured helplessly at himself. "I can't seem to settle. Every time I lie down and close my eyes, the orb...it's like it knows I'm trying to rest, and won’t allow it."

He couldn't stay still. He resumed his pacing, though he tried to keep his steps softer. "Then my mind starts racing. What if it gets worse? What if we can't find anything to appease it? What if I..." He stopped abruptly, realizing he was rambling. "Sorry. You don't need to hear all this. I just... I couldn't stand lying there staring at the tent ceiling for another moment."

He looked at her then, and the complaint died on his lips. Her dark hair was loose and tumbling around her shoulders, the silver streak catching the firelight. Instead of the leather she wore during the day, she was dressed in simple black linen that, despite its looser fit, seemed to reveal so much more of her. She looked softer, more approachable, and dangerously beautiful in the firelight.

For a moment, he stopped, staring. Then he forced himself to look away before his thoughts wandered down paths that would only lead to more sleepless nights.

As if she had read his thoughts, she extended an invitation he wasn't expecting at all. Certainly not now. "Gale," she offered, "come join me in my tent. I have something I want to try."

His eyes snapped back to her and then quickly away again. He felt a flush travel from his forehead all the way to his feet. Something she wanted to try. The phrasing was ambiguous enough to fuel a dozen different scenarios, most of which his mind was all too eager to supply with vivid detail. On any other night, in any other circumstances...

He cleared his throat, tugging at his beard nervously. "I... that is..." He couldn't find the right words to say no and yes simultaneously, to express both desire and fear in the same breath. "Wren, I'm flattered, truly I am. And under different circumstances, I would be... well, more than tempted, I'd be … very willing."

The memory of what had happened earlier came flooding back. The way the orb had latched onto her magic, the pain on her face. "But after what happened today... I can't risk that again."

He took a step back "Intimacy would be... it would be incredibly dangerous. The moment I lost control, the orb might..." He swallowed hard. "I could kill you without meaning to. I could obliterate everything around us."

The orb chose that moment to pulse sharply, as if it were confirming his worst fears. "As long as I carry this within me, I'm a danger to anyone who gets too close. Especially someone like you." His eyes pleaded with her to understand. "I couldn't bear it if I hurt you."

Wren's eyes flew wide open in astonishment. Two bright red spots appeared on either side of her nose, and her mouth dropped open as she began to stammer. "I... oh gods no, I didn't mean... that."

Then her face snapped shut again and she fixed him with a look that could have frozen their campfire. "Do you really think you are that irresistible?” she scolded. “It's been two days since we've properly bathed, and you look like you've been to the hells and back. Yet you think that I've looked at you in this state,” she gestured at him, “and decided that I must have you? What kind of..." Her eyes were burning like stars in the reflected firelight, and a crown of sparks played around her hair as her magic responded to her agitation. Instead of finishing her sentence, she closed her eyes as if trying to make the entire situation disappear.

Gale's face went from flushed with mild embarrassment to complete humiliation in a heartbeat. His mind, which had so helpfully supplied all those detailed images, now turned on him, replaying every word of her ambiguous question and his ill-considered response. "Oh. Oh gods. I... that is... I completely..." He buried his face in his hands. "I am so, so sorry. That was spectacularly presumptuous of me. And crude. And..."

Wren took a breath and opened her eyes, and when she saw him, her own expression softened with regret. "I'm sorry," she offered, her voice gentler now. "I was too harsh in my reaction. I wasn't very clear in my words. It was my fault,” she offered apologetically, “I gave you the wrong idea."

She looked at him sheepishly. "What I should have said is that when I was younger, my magic was difficult for me to control. Father Devane taught me meditations that helped me. I thought maybe they could help with the orb too."

He lowered his hands, then quickly looked away again when he caught sight of her hair flowing around her flushed cheeks. "It’s quite all right,” he said hurriedly. “I'm going to go find a very deep hole to crawl into now, if you'll excuse me." He started a hasty retreat, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and his spectacular misunderstanding.

"Gale," Wren commanded. "It's fine. It was just a miscommunication. Please …  let me try this." Her voice grew stubborn. "If you don't, I'll be sure to remind you of this conversation every day until you change your mind."

Gale froze mid-retreat. He turned back, his expression a mixture of horror and resignation. "You wouldn't," he said weakly.  She raised an eyebrow and he could see in her eyes that she absolutely would. 

He let out a defeated sigh. "Every day, you say? And if I never give in? Because we could be traveling together for quite some time, and that's a rather substantial commitment."

Even as he protested, he was already moving back toward her tent. He had no energy to fight this anymore. The orb chose that moment to pulse again, reminding him sharply that pride was a luxury he couldn't afford right now. If she had something that might help...

"Fine," he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. "But I want it on record that this is under duress." He paused at the entrance to her tent. "And I promise to behave myself. Truly, I don't think I'm capable of any mischief at the moment."

"Good," she said, inviting him in. The inside of her tent was exactly as he would have expected. It was furnished with only her bedroll and a small lantern. Her sketchbook and charcoal were set near the light, and he found his eyes drawn to them, wondering what new observations she might have recorded. 

The rest of her things were packed and ready for the morning, her cloak and leathers folded with military precision in one corner. The air held hints of leather and the oils used to care for her armor and weapons, as well as something green and herbal.

She moved to the side and patted her bedroll. "Lie down here. I'll try the meditation Father Devane used when my sorcery was particularly violent." She sat cross-legged near the bedroll and waited for him to get situated.

"Right then," Gale said as he lowered himself onto the bedroll. The orb protested with a sharp pulse, and he couldn't help but wince. His brain helpfully observed that he was now lying where she lay every night, and he firmly requested it to shut up. 

"I have to admit," he said, "this is rather outside my expertise. Meditation was never a strength of mine. I've always been more inclined toward active spellwork"

He settled onto his back, then shifted around, unsure of the proper positioning. "Like this? I confess I'm not entirely certain what to do.".

"You are fine like that. Just close your eyes," she began. "Focus on the sound of my voice and your own breathing. Let yourself just be. You don't have to do anything but listen to my voice and follow my instructions."

Gale's eyes fluttered closed, and for a moment he simply lay there, his overactive mind cataloging every sensation. The texture of the bedroll beneath him,  the soft glow of the lantern on his eyelids, and the orb's persistent ache.

"Next, I will direct you to breathe," she continued. "I want you to breathe in fully, then breathe out fully. As you breathe in, think 'I am breathing in.' As you breathe out, think 'I am breathing out.' Focus only on your breath, those singular thoughts, and my voice. Let everything else go." Then she began, leading him through each breath with her low, rhythmic voice.

Gale focused on her words and his breath and felt the tension begin to ease. The words were like an anchor in the storm of his racing thoughts.

I am breathing in. The simple phrase cut through his anxiety and allowed him to latch onto something other than the spiraling fears that had been plaguing him all evening.

I am breathing out. With each breath, the orb's demands receded. Wren's voice seemed to create a barrier that numbed the constant pulling. He started to match the rhythm she set, his breathing growing deeper and slower.

There was something calming about surrendering control even of his breathing to someone else. Gale felt his mind quiet. The constant chatter that filled his thoughts gradually faded into the background. For someone who lived so much in his own head, the relief was palpable.

"Now, let your breathing flow naturally and listen only to my words," she said. "Focus on what I say and not what your thoughts tell you."

Through the blanket of calm that had settled over him, Gale could feel ritual magic now. The meditative state she'd guided him to made his mind more receptive to the working. New channels were open to receive the healing magic. It was much more sophisticated work that he usually saw from sorcerers.

You have survived this before and you will survive it now.

The words settled into his consciousness. He had survived, hadn't he? A year of isolation, the constant fear of what he might become or what he might destroy. The shame of Mystra's abandonment, the terror of his first few feeding cycles. He was still here, still fighting, and still capable of hope.

You are more than your emotions.

As she said it, the healing magic slipped in and a separation formed between his situation and the emotions it inspired. The fear, the anxiety, and desperation were still there, but now he could examine them safely.. He could acknowledge them. then let them move through like clouds passing over the landscape of his mind.

You are needed and you are wanted.

As the words wrote themselves into his mind, he nearly cried. When was the last time he had felt that way? Mystra's abandonment had convinced him he was a broken thing that was no good to anyone anymore. Now, Wren's voice offered him a different truth. Someone did need him, perhaps even wanted him, although that part was harder for him to believe.

You are protected and you are safe.

The magical working tied itself into a knot within his mind, and Gale felt the orb's influence recede like a tide pulling back from the shore. His exhaustion finally began to claim him. For the first time in hours, or maybe even days, he felt his body truly relax. His breathing deepened and consciousness began to slip away.

The last thing he was aware of was the sound of Wren's voice completing the ritual and the blessed absence of the orb's demands as sleep finally took him.

When the pale light of dawn filtered through the canvas, Gale stirred slowly. His consciousness returned in layers. He first realized he was not in his own tent. Then he noticed that he felt more rested than he had in days. This led him to the realization that the orb was quiet in his chest, as if it still slept. Finally, it became clear that sometime during the night, he had shifted closer to Wren.

Much closer.

His arms had found their way around her during sleep, and he was snuggled against her back. His face was buried in her hair, and he could feel the gentle rhythm of her breathing against his chest. For a moment, he simply lay there, wondering if she was aware of any of this in her reverie. He didn’t dare move.

His heart began to race. He was acutely aware of her body, warm against his. This is not what I intended, he thought, panicked. He tried to remember how he'd ended up like this but it was useless. Somewhere in the depths of sleep, his body had decided to seek comfort, and hers had allowed it. 

He scolded himself. This was not only inappropriate, it was dangerous … or it should have been. Remarkably, the orb remained calm. Whatever she had done with her meditation, it had allowed them these few hours of contact without the orb trying to devour her.

She's still in reverie, he told himself. But how aware was she? Elves were said to retain some perception during their meditative rest. Could she sense the pounding of his heart against her back? Could she feel the way his body was responding to her proximity? Thinking about that only made it worse.

He knew he should extract himself quickly and pretend this had never happened, but part of him wanted to stay exactly where he was. Instead of erasing it like the mistake it was, that part of him wanted to pretend that this was real.

Why? He thought. 

Why do you think, you idiot? You’re falling for her. In fact, it seems you’ve already fallen quite hard. He heard this thought in Tara’s voice and he suddenly missed her scolding terribly. 

It was true. Last night he had thought it was simply physical attraction. A lonely man traveling with an attractive partner and inevitably drawn to them by the needs of the body. Now, holding her in his arms, he knew it was more than that. 

The realization should have terrified him. He was a walking disaster that could destroy everything around him. And she … she was the one who would strike him down if that happened. She served the goddess that had cast him aside and that goddess owned her, body and soul. It was madness to consider the two of them … 

But as he lay there, holding her in his arms and feeling her breathe against his chest, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Not when she had shown him such unexpected kindness. Not when she had risked everything for him.

Trying not to disturb her, Gale began the delicate process of extricating himself. If he could slip away quietly, he might still be able to act as if this never happened. His dignity had already taken enough battering.

Dignity, he held onto that as he began to ease his arm from beneath her. Salvage what's left of your dignity and get out of this tent before she comes out of reverie.

With painstaking care, he managed to slide his arm free, holding his breath as she stirred slightly. He froze, waiting to see if she would emerge from her reverie, but her breathing remained steady and her eyelids stayed heavy and half-closed. He could see her eyes moving beneath them, engaged in whatever memories occupied her rest.

As silently as he could, he eased himself up to a sitting position, then crawled out as quietly as he could. He paused at the tent entrance, looking back at her. She had covered him with her cloak at some point and it had slipped to the floor as he rose. He carefully reached down to pull it over her, tucking it around her shoulders.

Don't read more into it than there is, he warned himself sternly. She was being kind, that’s all. Don't let your feelings get away from you. You always do this, and it always goes badly.

Even as he told himself that, he couldn't shake the memory of how right it had felt to wake up with her in his arms. She let you …that stubborn part of his brain thought. She was in reverie, he told himself. And what does that mean? You don’t know. She might have felt it. She might have wanted it too.

He shook his head to clear it. This was a dangerous line of thinking. Best to see what she did when she woke. To occupy himself, he set about the familiar ritual of making their morning coffee, grateful for the mundane task that would allow him to compose himself before she emerged. 

A little while later, Wren stepped out of her tent. Her hair was neatly pulled back in its customary low ponytail, and she was dressed for traveling in her leathers and cloak. If she had any awareness of what had happened in the night, she showed no sign of it.

"Good morning," she said. "Did you rest well? Did the meditation help?" Her face was as unreadable as ever. "Is that coffee I smell?"

Gale looked up from where he was tending the small fire, relief flooding through him. She was either choosing not to acknowledge their entanglement in the night, or she was genuinely unaware. Either way, he was grateful.

"Good morning," he replied, gesturing toward the pot hanging over the flames. "Coffee, indeed. And yes, the meditation helped considerably. I actually slept deeply for the first time in days. Whatever you did, it was remarkably effective."

He poured some into a mug and offered it to her, trying not to react when his pulse quickened as their fingers met briefly on the handle. "The orb feels quieter this morning,” he said quickly, “It's like you created a buffer between it and me."

Taking a sip from his own mug, he studied her over the rim. "I’m curious about these meditations. Are they a common practice among Mystra's clergy? What you did was quite sophisticated."

"The meditations are something Father Devane developed himself," she answered. "His specialty as a cleric of Mystra is magical afflictions. He uses the meditations as tools to calm the more volatile symptoms of those afflicted. That's what made me think of it for you."

She fell into a memory. "That's why he was brought to the Halls to mentor me. My magic was so uncontrollable when I was small that my emotions could be very destructive. Before him, the only remedy they had was to place me in silencing chambers." Her voice held an old pain. "For such a young child, it wasn't the kindest solution."

Her eyes held that complex mix of emotions that always emerged when she spoke of Father Devane. "His meditations helped me bring my magic under control. I hope they will help you too. If you start to feel the orb act up, you can do the breathing exercises and it should trigger the effect of the ritual again. If the breathing isn't working, let me know and we can do the full meditation again, or I can try a different variation."

Setting down his mug, Gale placed a hand briefly over his chest. "I can already feel the difference. The hunger has eased to something more like background noise." His gaze met hers. "Thank you, Wren. I promise not to take such a gift lightly."

She nodded in lieu of a smile. She simply didn’t do direct expressions of emotion most of the time, but he was learning how to read her. "Of course," was all she said. "We should reach the goblins' camp by day's end. We should scout it out before trying to enter, so we can plan how we will attempt to find Halsin."

She studied him. "Are you still up for this? We could turn back to the Grove instead."

"Turn back?" Gale shook his head firmly. "No, I think not. Whatever's happening with the orb, we can't simply ignore the larger crisis. The tadpoles won't wait for me to sort out my other complications."

He finished the last of his coffee and began cleaning up. "Besides, after everything you've done to help me, the least I can do is see this through with you. Partners, remember?"

"Partners," she agreed, as she quickly and efficiently packed away her tent.

"Partners," Gale repeated with quiet satisfaction, and he realized the word had taken on new meaning for him. She wasn't just his traveling companion anymore. But what did the word mean to her?

He busied himself with packing away their remaining supplies, trying not to read too much into the word, but he kept stealing glances at her as they worked. The morning light caught the silver streak in her hair, and she looked more at ease today, as if the meditation had calmed something in her too. .

"Come then, partner," he said, falling into step beside her as they began to head out. "Let us see what fresh hell awaits us today."

She shook her head at the hint of playfulness in his words, but if you looked closely, you might catch the tiny quirk of her lip that was as close as she got to a smile. This morning, Gale was definitely looking closely.

He did catch it and felt ridiculously pleased with himself. He adjusted his pack straps and started down the path that would lead them to the goblin camp,, but his eyes lingered on her face. There was something about this small victory that made him feel like larger victories might be possible.

Chapter Text

The Once-Wizard in his zeal sought to create what cannot be created. 
Driven by hungers he could not name, thus he cleaved his spark in twain.

With burning hands he shaped it to the form of his desires. 
Lo, the Lady of Rebellion arose, to challenge and to claim him

Thus were created two from one: 
He who reaches ever upward, and she who strikes down all that would bind. 

Forever bound, forever returning.
Neither whole without the other, neither made to walk alone.

—The Gospel of the Twin Spark, Verse VII (Apocryphal)

Wren

The goblin camp sprawled below them like a festering wound in the landscape. Torches flickered between the ramshackle structures built up among the ruins of an old temple. From their vantage point on the rocky outcropping above, Wren could make out the movements of sentries and the glint of weapons.

"There," she pointed at the main entrance. "Those humans walking in unchallenged, they must be 'True Souls.'"

Gale nodded, lowering his scrying focus. "Those guards just waved those humans through. They didn't even question them. Our tadpoles should provide sufficient disguise to get us in. Hopefully we can maintain the pretense after that."

"We can certainly get in," Wren said with quiet confidence. "The question is: can we find Halsin before our luck runs out?"

They scrambled down from the overlook and looked for a place to camp before twilight deepened into night. After a careful search, they found a well-concealed spot among a cluster of boulders to camp. It was far enough from the goblin camp to avoid detection, but close enough to get back there quickly come morning.

As Wren unpacked her tent, something caught the firelight near her pack. "Gale," she called softly, crouching beside the object. "Is this yours?"

He looked up from where he was arranging kindling and frowned. The artifact was roughly the size of a pinecone. It was a small, many-sided box made of blackened iron. Each corner came to a sharp point and strange symbols were etched around its edges. The symbols pulsed with a faint inner glow.

"I've never seen it before," he said, moving closer to examine it. "Where did you find it?"

"Right next to my pack. I thought perhaps it had fallen out of yours."

Gale knelt beside her, scrutinizing the object. "This is concerning. Objects don't simply materialize without reason."

Both of them began their own examinations. Wren focused her divine and magical senses, while Gale muttered detection cantrips under his breath. After several minutes of careful investigation, they exchanged puzzled looks.

"I can sense magic in it," Wren said, "but nothing malevolent."

"Indeed. The magical signature is unusual. It could be psionic in nature, but it's hard for me to read clearly." Gale sat back on his heels, considering. "Whatever it is, it doesn't appear to be a scrying device or trap."

"No," Wren agreed, "but it certainly holds power. Perhaps it's something we can use for the orb if needed?"

"Perhaps," Gale said, still puzzling over it. "I'm sure I'll need to feed it again soon enough."

They agreed to keep the artifact, then there was a brief debate about storage. Gale wanted it well away from their sleeping areas, while Wren thought they needed to keep it secure. They compromised by placing it in Wren’s pack, and she secured it to the outside of her tent instead of keeping it inside. Gale accepted this solution reluctantly, still grumbling about keeping an unknown magical object so close to where she rested.

Their dinner was a scrappy affair consisting of the last of their dried rations and some questionable ale they'd liberated from goblins encountered on the road. The ale was bitter and it burned going down in a way that no ale should, but it blurred the edges of their nerves in a way they sorely needed.

"You know," Gale said, settling against his pack with the bottle in hand, "I've been thinking about the different ways we experience magic."

Wren accepted the bottle from him, wincing as she drank. "Different is certainly one way to put it."

"Magic is my life," Gale continued, enthusiastically. "I've been in touch with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There's nothing like it. It's like music, poetry, and physical beauty all rolled into one and given expression through the senses." He paused, studying her face with an intensity that made her skin warm. "Is it the same for you?"

Wren considered the question, her gaze turning inward. "No, not like any music or poetry I have ever heard. And beauty, well... that's in the eye of the beholder, as they say." She shook her head, searching for the right words. "It feels more like... riding a wild horse bareback, or swimming in a maelstrom. Or, if you prefer an example from the arts, dancing with a wildcat."

Gale chuckled softly, and she caught the genuine delight in his expression. "A wildcat, hmm? That's certainly more dynamic than my experience." He leaned forward, intrigued. The firelight caught the warmth in his eyes. "I suppose that makes sense. Your magic isn't learned, it simply is. It's woven into your essence. And what you describe sounds very much like you."

His expression grew thoughtful as he sought to explain his own experience. "For me, magic has always been about control and precision. It's like conducting an orchestra where every note must be perfectly placed. But you..." He gestured toward her. "You're wielding a storm on pure instinct. I can’t even imagine what that’s like."

Wren studied his earnest expression. There was something infectious about his enthusiasm for magic. More than that, she found she actually wanted to share this part of herself with someone who understood and appreciated it. How long had it been since she had shared such personal thoughts and feelings with anyone other than Father Devane?

Gale continued, "I've spent most of my life trying to impose my will upon the Weave. I must constantly strive to bend it to my purposes. The idea of simply … letting the magic flow through you … it seems impossible."

He turned to face her. He kept his voice casual, but there was a slight quaver in it and he fidgeted nervously with the bottle as he spoke. "Would you, perhaps... like me to show you how I touch the Weave? We could reach into it together. I could guide you through experiencing magic the way I do."

Wren considered this proposal. Her magic had always been an extension of herself. She hadn’t sought it, or learned it. It had always just been there for her. Gale, on the other hand, had pursued the Weave and tamed it. She was suddenly curious to experience magic in a new way. More than that, she trusted Gale enough to let him guide her. "Yes," she answered. "I think I would like to try that."

Gale's face lit up with pleasure and he set the ale aside. "Wonderful," he exclaimed, rising to his feet. He moved to a more open space, and Wren followed. "Now,” he began, “this may feel quite different from what you're accustomed to. Your magic flows from within, but this is about reaching out to connect to the Weave."

He raised his hands and began a series of gestures. "Follow my lead," he instructed. As he moved through the gestures, purple light began to flicker around his fingers. His magic felt different from hers. It was structured and disciplined, like the way she fought with weapons. A skill born of long hours of practice and training. "The Weave responds to intent as much as action,” he lectured. “Each movement is both an invitation and instruction."

Wren studied his movements and found that it was almost like a language she understood. Perhaps, because of the magic that lived within her, Gale's gestures spoke to her in the same way they spoke to the Weave. This understanding made it easy for her to imitate his movements, and the purple glow soon appeared around her own fingers, perfectly mirroring his.

"Extraordinary," Gale breathed. The shimmering energy between them intensified, and something began to shift in the air around them. There was a warmth building in the space between their hands. Their magic met and intertwined in that space and they could feel an awareness of each other just tickling the edges of their consciousness .

"Now, repeat after me" His voice took on a more formal tone as he spoke the incantation: "Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao."

The words flowed easily from Wren's tongue, and another shimmer rose to meet Gale's. The air between them filled with the scent of rosewater and a sense of wellbeing. Wren felt a sliver of the Weave that tasted sweet on her tongue. Then Gale’s magic touched hers and she gasped. It was sweet like warm honey and as cool and clear as a starlit night. Was this always what it was like for a wizard? Or was this specific to Gale? The question felt too personal to ask.

"Very good! Now comes the more challenging part." Gale's voice grew softer, and Wren stepped closer to catch every word. "I want you to picture in your mind the concept of harmony. Not musical harmony, but true harmony. The way all things fit together perfectly when they're meant to."

In response, Wren pictured the storm that lived in her blood. To others it might seem wild and out of control, but to her it was one of the few things that made sense. She immersed herself within her magic and in it she found the unmistakable presence of Mystra. But this aspect of the goddess was new to her. She felt something like the anticipation of a kiss, and then the pleasure of being cloaked in peace. She felt safe, nestled in the cup of Mystra's hand.

It should have filled her with wonder, but what arose instead was bitterness. Mystra had never made Wren feel safe or peaceful. Not once. Is this what Gale felt when he was with the goddess? Was this what it was to be her Chosen?

Wren felt a deep loneliness and old resentments rose up anew. She had always thought her experience of the goddess was simply what Mystra was. But now she understood that was just what Mystra chose to show her. She had been too difficult, too wild, and too angry to be treasured. She was broken, not what Mystra would have chosen in a servant. That cold sense of command and obligation was all she was worth to the goddess who owned her life.

Before that sour realization could spoil the night, Wren realized with a start that she could sense Gale on a different level now. Their tadpoles were stirring, responding to the magical connection they had opened. The barriers they'd each maintained around their minds were dissolving in the presence of the Weave's binding force. 

Through their growing connection, she felt guilt crashing over him like a wave as he caught her thoughts and understood the disparity of their experience with Mystra. 

"Wren," Gale asked uncertainly, "do you feel that?"

"Yes," she responded. She tried turning her eyes from his, but the feeling remained. If anything, it grew stronger. What did she have to hide now anyway? Everything was out in the open. She met his eyes again and decided to try something. She pictured in her mind his hand sticking out of the sigil stone on the day they had formally met and imagined sending it his way.

"Can you see that?" she asked.

The moment her memory touched his mind, Gale gasped. Through their connection, she felt his amazement. "Yes," he murmured, his voice touched with wonder. "I can see it perfectly."

The connection between them pulsed stronger, the Weave wrapping them both in its embrace. Gale projected his own memory back to her of the terrible isolation in that dimensional pocket. He sent with it the dread that he would die alone and forgotten in that in-between place. Then her hand, strong and sure, pulling him to safety. She felt his overwhelming relief and then the slow fade as unconsciousness claimed him.

He let her see and feel everything. Not just the image, but the feelings associated with it. "That was the moment everything changed for me, Wren. I wasn't alone anymore."

The boundary between their thoughts grew thinner still. "Show me more," he breathed. "Show me who you really are."

Wren hesitated, old instincts warning her to shut this down. She pushed them aside and opened her mind to him completely. She showed him the Halls of Reflected Moonlight, with its three stout towers perched on jagged rocks above the Sea of Swords. She took him into the courtyard, and there was a younger version of herself throwing whirlstars at a practice dummy with relentless determination. She was perhaps fifteen years old, her face set with the grim resolve to master skills that had been chosen for her, not by her. Through their connection, she felt Gale's heart clench at the sight of her younger self, so serious and so alone. 

Then maybe one or two years later, she was perched upon the highest rock of the island, screaming into the winds that raged around and from her. Lightning and thunder split the sky as the storm of her adolescent fury found physical form. She let him feel it all, the outrage and the electricity, the tempest that raged within and without.

She felt his awe at the raw power, but more than that, his recognition of the pain beneath it. He felt what it felt like to wield power that came from within, to hold power that was yours always. She felt his envy and his terror at the wildness and unpredictability of it. 

Next came another memory from the same period. She piloted a small raft with a makeshift sail, using her own wind to propel herself away from the island. For a short time she tasted freedom. Then the winds died as a net of silence fell over her, and a boat with two stern knights hauled her aboard to drag her back to the Halls. She sent him her wild hope as she sailed away, then the crushing defeat as she was captured yet again. His fury at her captors burned through their connection, followed by grief for the freedom she'd never had.

Finally, Wren at eighteen, collapsed in her bed. Lightning wreathed her and danced around the room in a display of raw anguish, but Father Devane sat at her side like an island of calm, shielded and unafraid. He led her through a meditation as her storm calmed first to weeping, then to stillness. She allowed Gale to feel the depths of her despair and the utter futility that had settled into her bones along with the realization that even death was forbidden to her by the goddess who wielded her like a blade.

When he witnessed that final surrender, she saw him fighting back tears. She felt his heart break completely at the image of her defeated and weeping.

"Oh, Wren," he sighed. "You were so young. So full of fire and fight, and she..." He couldn't voice what had been done to her spirit. Instead, he offered his own memories in return.

His first time touching the Weave as a child, so full with the pure joy and wonder of discovery. Then, the time he summoned Tara after his parents refused to let him have a cat. Wren's heart ached as she felt the deep pit of loneliness that had caused him to reach beyond his own realm for a friend, having found none in his own.

Then they were standing before the stern tower masters at Blackstaff Academy trying to explain why he'd opened a portal to Limbo instead of his dormitory, the acrid smell of chaos still clinging to his robes. Wren experienced the mingled pride and shame of the young wizard who had displayed the breadth of his power, only to be met with disapproval.

Finally, he showed her that first world-shaking moment when Mystra spoke directly to him.  She felt the overwhelming sensation of being desired by divinity itself.

Through it all, Wren felt his emotions as if they were her own: the loneliness of a gifted child who understood magic better than people, the desperate need to prove himself, and the crushing weight of ambition. As the images flowed between them, something melted inside of her. To know someone so completely undid defenses that she had spent years constructing.

The boundaries between them had dissolved until Wren could no longer tell where her thoughts ended and Gale’s began. She took a step closer, drawn by the need to find where she ended and he began, but there were no borders anymore.

Gale took a step to meet her, no longer thinking but simply responding to a force that transcended mere attraction.

In that perfect, terrifying unity, a vision bloomed between them. It did not come from either conscious mind, but from the place where their most deeply hidden desires intersected. They froze, caught in the vision's tantalizing grip, but the versions of themselves within that vision continued to draw closer. They saw his hands framing her face. They saw her eyes flutter closed as their lips met in a kiss that began as gently as a whisper but deepened into something all-consuming.

The vision was so vivid that for a heartbeat they couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. Wren’s  tongue tingled with wine and warmth, Gale’s with storm and salt. He felt the electricity of her dancing across his skin like a shiver.

Through their connection, she felt the intensity of Gale’s desire as he stood mesmerized by what he saw and felt, followed by an aching sense of longing that matched her own. The vision expanded, showing them hands sliding beneath clothing, desperate touches, and whispered names.

Wren stood frozen, caught in the echo of that impossible vision. She hadn't consciously known until she saw it that this was what she wanted. Now that she had seen it, she wanted nothing else. She took another step forward, her hand reaching out...

But even as the vision reached its crescendo, showing them bodies pressed close and fingers fumbling with fastenings... reality crashed back with brutal suddenness.

Gale stumbled backward as the connection severed abruptly. The Weave dissipated like the last notes of a song that ended, and suddenly the night felt impossibly cold and lonely.

"Was that you... or was that me?" Wren whispered. "I... I didn't think... I never..."

The shame and confusion of having her deepest desires laid bare not just to herself but to the object of those desires made every instinct scream at her to run. That was what she would normally do. She would flee as fast and as far as possible, and scream thunder from some distant cliff until the feelings passed. But there was nowhere to go except a camp full of monsters. So instead she sank to the ground, pulling her knees against her chest and hiding her burning face in them.

The Weave was gone, but the connection between their tadpoles lingered. She could feel Gale trying to shake off the vision. “Both of us," he said quietly. "It was both of us, Wren. I felt it too. I wanted it too." He sank to the ground near her. "Please don't hide from me," he said softly. "Not after what we just shared. There's no shame in this."

He moved close enough that she could feel the nearness of him. "Wren, I would very much like that vision to become reality. The thought of kissing you, of holding you... it's been haunting my dreams more often than I care to admit."

Heat raced through her body at this confession, but then he brought them both back to reality. "I can't. Not while this orb sits in my chest. I've seen how it hungers for your magic. It would devour everything that makes you... you."

She could hear the fear and self-loathing in his voice as he continued. "The slightest loss of control could set this off. I fear if we even started down that path, I might lose myself so completely in you that maintaining control would become impossible."

He shifted closer, so close they almost touched, but not quite. "I didn't dare to hope you felt the same. But after what we saw,  if that is truly how you feel... then maybe we could find something we can have."

Finally, Wren lifted her face to meet his gaze. She was inexperienced with feelings like this, but she knew she had to face this honestly. "I didn't know I wanted this until I saw it,” she admitted, “but now that I've seen it... I cannot stop seeing it, I cannot stop wanting it." Her eyes burned silver with that wanting, glinting like her whirlstars and tearing into Gale's heart with the same razor-sharp precision.

"But I'm not... well, you know how I am by now," she continued, "I've always rejected companionship because the life I lead makes such things difficult, even dangerous. The lovers I've had before were barely worth that designation."

She shrugged with casual dismissal. "They were a convenience. Strangers encountered in cities I passed through on Mystra's business. Just another way to pass the time."

Her expression grew thoughtful. "Perhaps I should start by learning how to have a friend, and how to be one. Although..." She hesitated. "Is there such a thing as someone who is more than a friend but less than a lover?"

Gale’s eyes filled with relief as she spoke. "More than a friend but less than a lover," he repeated thoughtfully. "I don't think there's a proper term for it in Common. Perhaps the elves have one? Your folk have a different approach to relationships."

She shook her head. "If there is, I've never heard it."

He smiled at her. "Just because there isn't a word for something doesn't mean it can't exist. We could invent it."

He gestured between them. "What we have already is certainly more than mere friendship: the way we fight as one, the way you’ve put your trust in me, the way I feel when I wake and you're there..." He stopped at that reveal, then decided to keep going. "We can have this without physical intimacy. It can simply be what it is: two people who understand each other in ways most never experience."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "Besides, I suspect you'd be an extraordinary friend. You're certainly better at keeping me alive than I am." Then his expression grew more serious. "But Wren? Those anonymous encounters you mentioned, that's not what I want from you. I don't want you to just pass through my life."

Wren studied his face for a long moment, reading truth there alongside the carefully dampened desire. "No," she said finally. "That’s not how I think of you, even if we …" she stopped, not wanting to steer the conversation that way.

Tentatively, she reached out her hand. "To more than friends but less than lovers, then. Though please let me know if you think of a shorter way to say that."

Gale looked down at her outstretched hand, then took it in both of his. "To more than friends but less than lovers," he agreed. "Though you're absolutely right. We need better terminology. Perhaps 'companions who care?' 'Cherished allies?' 'Friends plus?'"

The orb stirred and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then reluctantly released it. He angled himself toward her as he sat back. "No, you're definitely not passing through my life. If anything, you've become the most constant thing in it. More reliable than magic, more essential than breath." He paused, then added, "Which is either the most romantic thing I've ever said, or the most codependent. Quite possibly both."

Wren stared at him, then quickly looked away. The things he said ... why did they affect her like this? She had no patience for words most of the time, but somehow when he spoke it made something go soft inside her.. 

He said such unnecessary things and it made her want to stop those unnecessary words with a kiss. A kiss so hard and thorough it would make him forget how to speak at all. The urge was so strong she had to clench her hands to keep from reaching for him..

But she couldn't do that, so the only option left was to walk away. "I'm going to my tent," she announced, standing. But before she could fully raise her mental barriers, a lingering echo from their tadpole connection revealed the truth to him: the way his words affected her, the image of silencing him with her mouth.

She felt him receive it, felt his sharp intake of breath and the way his heart began to race. Then the connection snapped closed, leaving them both shaken.

"I'll see you tomorrow, friend plus," she said as she walked away. "Don't stay up too late, we have to infiltrate an incredibly hazardous camp full of goblins and other horrible things."

Chapter Text

"The Lady of Mysteries, in her infinite wisdom, has woven certain mortals into the fabric of the Weave itself. These living anchors serve not merely as conduits, but as the foundation stones upon which the Weave rests. Should catastrophe befall the goddess, these hidden pillars would hold fast against the collapse of all arcane knowledge." 

— From "Structures of the Arcane" by Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun

Gale

The morning mist still clung to the ruins of the Selûnite temple as Gale and Wren approached it. They crouched behind a cluster of mossy stones to survey the goblin encampment before proceeding. The acrid smell of smoke drifted on the breeze.

Gale adjusted his grip on his staff. The orb in his chest pulsed with a restless energy. He ran through the breathing exercises Wren had taught him and it calmed somewhat. 

He glanced sideways at Wren. They hadn’t spoken of last night again and he couldn’t help wondering what she was thinking now. She was intently focused on the view of the camp, but he saw a touch of color rise in her cheeks as he looked at her. He quickly looked away. 

He forced his attention back to their immediate situation. The desecration of what had clearly been a beautiful temple disgusted him. The thought of all the books burned and knowledge destroyed went against everything he valued. He turned to Wren again. "Are you ready for this?"

"I don't know," she answered, "But better this than ceremorphosis." She stood. "Let's go," she said, patting his shoulder gently before setting off toward the bridge.

The brief touch of her hand caught him off guard. She rarely touched him, certainly not casually. He touched his own hand to his shoulder, stunned, then scrambled to catch up with her. As they neared the stone bridge leading into the camp, he saw something in the grass that stopped him. "Wren," he called to her uneasily. "Over there. Do you see it?" A person lay in the grass, still and unmoving.

Wren had already run over and dropped to look at the crumpled form. As he got closer, it became clear that the woman was already dead. A symbol of Shar adorned the metal breastplate on her armor. 

"I know her," Wren said. "I mean ... I don't know her, but she was aboard the nautiloid. We helped each other before the crash. After, I saw her on the beach, unconscious but alive. I left her ... to look for you."

The knightly order that had raised Wren were dedicated to opposing Shar in the name of Mystra and Selune. These two women should have been enemies, but there was no hatred in Wren’s voice, only sorrow. 

Gale's heart clenched with sympathy. He knew there was much more to Wren than what she showed, and he was fascinated by this new revelation. Her genuine grief for someone who should have been an enemy revealed yet another small rebellion against her role and her duty. 

"You made the choice you thought you had to make," he said, with quiet conviction. ""It was an impossible choice. If you had stayed with her instead, perhaps we'd all be dead. It's very likely I would be-"

Reality suddenly fractured around them. A voice crashed into their minds, ancient, commanding, and irresistible.

KNEEL.

Gale's vision went white, then black. He fell into an endless void where that voice echoed from all directions. The tadpole behind his eye writhed, responding eagerly to its master's call. It was pure violation … total domination.

Out of the darkness, three figures materialized: an armored male elf radiating cold authority, a human man whose features were twisted with cruel tyranny, and a pale woman whose beauty masked something bloodsoaked and violent. 

A sudden pulse of bright energy erupted from Wren’s pack. The mysterious object they'd found flew out, blazing with protective light that pushed back against the darkness in their minds, creating a barrier that shoved away the Absolute's influence.

Reality reasserted itself and Gale stumbled, steadying himself against the bridge's stone railing. "By Mystra's grace..." he croaked. "That was the Absolute. It showed us its Chosen. Did you see them?" 

He looked at the artifact, still faintly glowing in the air between them. "This thing, whatever it is, just saved our minds." He paused. "Wren, I think we've found something far more valuable than we realized."

The light faded from the artifact and it settled into Wren's hand. She stared at it. "Do you think this can keep us from turning into mindflayers?"

Gale nodded, his excitement cutting through the lingering terror of the Absolute's mental assault. "Precisely my thinking," he said. “Whatever this power is, it seems to counteract the Absolute’s power to control us. If it can stop a power that great, it must be able to stop ceremorphosis as well. But I can’t even begin to fathom where such a power derives from.” 

He stared at the artifact as Wren secured it. If only he had access to his study and laboratory at home. "This changes everything about our timeline," he said, hope rising in his voice. "With this protection, we may have weeks before the tadpoles complete their work. It may even hold off ceremorphosis indefinitely."

He met her eyes, seeing his own cautious optimism reflected there. "Which means we have much more time than we thought to solve this problem. Maybe even time for..." He didn't finish that thought. There were still so many barriers between them beyond mere time. "Well, that's a thought for another day. Shall we venture in?"

At the bridge, there was a lone goblin sentry who was barely performing his duties. By this point, enough cultists were trickling through that a single hard look from Wren was enough for him to wave them through. 

The courtyard beyond swarmed with activity. Several goblins gathered around a pot of some foul alcoholic concoction while others gleefully roasted something over a fire that smelled of no meat he'd ever encountered. Among them cultists of all races mingled, engaging in a variety of vices together. 

They walked quickly and purposefully through the crowd, Wren's confident bearing parted the masses while Gale did his best to project casual competence despite his growing unease at the systematic nature of what he was witnessing. This wasn't mere banditry or tribal raiding. There was something directing this horde. Something with purpose.

One of the trackers caught sight of Wren and whistled, saying something that sounded crude even by goblin standards. Gale tensed, but Wren was already moving. She whirled and glared at the offender, her hand going to her belt where the sharp points of her whirlstars glinted. "What did you say?" she demanded in a tone so threatening even Gale felt a chill.

The goblin immediately backed down. "Just ... uh ... offering to give you directions, True Soul," he answered in Common.

Gale watched with fascination as Wren seamlessly transitioned from threat to opportunity. She scowled, but let the matter drop in favor of extracting useful information. "There is a prisoner here. A druid. We have orders concerning him. Where has he been taken?"

The goblin scratched his head. "Oh that bloke. Real troublemaker, that one. When Dror Ragzlin's men tried to take him down, he turned into a bear and ripped through a whole squad."

There was something almost respectful in the creature's voice. "Last I heard they dragged him to the pens." He nodded toward a heavy oak door guarded by a hulking ogre.

"Thanks," Wren said brusquely. She pulled a bottle of goblin ale from her pack and tossed it to him. "Enjoy yourself."

As they walked away, Gale found himself torn between admiration for Wren's performance and deep discomfort at how naturally the deception came to her. "For a moment there I thought we might have our first diplomatic incident," he observed. "Remind me never to whistle at you inappropriately."

His expression grew more serious as he glanced toward the roasting pit they were leaving behind. "I'm trying very hard not to think too closely about what they're cooking over there. The smell is..." He swallowed uncomfortably.

Wren nodded, her face blank. “This is a foul place for a foul god,” she said, “but our only way out is through. We must find Halsin.”

As they approached the heavy oak door with its ogre guard, Gale studied the creature. "I don't suppose you have any more of that goblin ale,” he asked Wren. “Our friend there looks like he might need some persuading to let us in," he suggested.

Wren shook her head. "An ogre would be more interested in whatever's cooking on that fire." She shuddered. "Goblins respond to authority and threats. Ogres are more unpredictable. They are pure gluttony and greed, with even less intellect than a goblin."

She approached the massive guard. "We are True Souls," she said loudly and slowly, making sure the ogre understood. "We come to see your leaders. They have a task for us." Her eye contact never wavered.

The ogre peered down at them with small, piggy eyes. Its massive head tilted as it processed Wren's words with glacial slowness. Gale could practically hear rusty gears creaking in the creature's brain as it tried to eke out a thought.

After what felt like an eternity, the ogre's face broke into a macabre grin, revealing crooked, fractured teeth. "True Souls! Yes!" the ogre rumbled in a voice like a grinding stone. "You want Minthara, yes? Scary drow lady? She want scouts. Careful. She mad today."

Even the ogre seemed frightened of Minthara, which told Gale a great deal about the power structure they were walking into. He caught Wren's eye briefly, filing away the name for future reference.

As they moved into the inner sanctum, Wren whispered, "Dror Ragzlin and Minthara. Let's try to steer clear of them."

Gale nodded as they moved deeper into what had once been sacred space. The desecration around them made his soul ache. In claiming the place, the goblins had defaced the beautiful stonework and destroyed the religious symbols. What once had been a sanctuary was now a hive of corruption. 

The walkway led into the main nave of the temple, and Gale's heart sank further when he saw what they had done there. Trash littered the floor as well as puddles that Gale did not care to investigate. In the center of the nave, both goblins and cultists were lined up before a priestess who was branding each one with a hot iron.

"Charming," he muttered under his breath. "Nothing quite says 'devoted following' like forced scarification. I'm beginning to understand why the Absolute's influence spreads so effectively. Fear and pain make for remarkably compliant converts."

"So do these tadpoles," Wren replied grimly as she led him well away from the priestess, doing her best to appear as if they belonged there and had urgent business elsewhere.

Gale matched her purposeful stride, but he couldn't help cataloguing the disturbing details around them. "The systematic nature of it all is what troubles me most," he continued quietly. "This isn't mere raiding and pillaging. These goblins are being organized and trained. We're looking at the foundation of an army."

As they skirted the main nave, he spotted several passages branching off in different directions. "Those rooms over there," he gestured toward the eastern passage where the sound of voices and rattling chains could be heard. "Let’s start there, it sounds like they are keeping prisoners over there.” He paused. "After you, my lady" he said softly, with mock gallantry.

Wren shook her head and then bumped against his side so briefly it could have been accidental, but Gale chose to interpret it as something more affectionate. Emboldened, he reached out and brushed his hand against hers as they walked, marveling when she let the contact linger. Such a small comfort, but in a place where danger pressed around them from all sides, it felt like everything.

From just ahead, noises spilled from one of the dungeon chambers, and through a semi-open door they could see the outline of a cage. "In there," Wren said quietly. "Let's see if that's Halsin."

When Wren swept through the door putting on her mask of authority, what they found was clearly not the druid they sought. Inside was a squat goblin with a thick club, poking through the bars at a man with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He wore a large floppy hat with an ostentatious feather, and an outfit that had once been dashing but now showed the wear of both travel and imprisonment.

"I'm looking for a druid named Halsin. Is this him?" Wren asked the goblin with the haughty authority of a True Soul.

"Piss off!" the goblin replied. "This ain't no druid. This is my pigeon. I'm gettin' 'im ready to sing for me."

The man in the cage straightened, and despite his bedraggled state, there was something pompous about him. "Ah! Visitors at last!" he exclaimed with surprising enthusiasm. "I am Volothamp Geddarm. Explorer, writer, and documentor of the realm's many wonders! Perhaps you've heard of my work? 'Volo's Guide to Monsters'? 'Volo's Guide to Waterdeep'? No? Well, no matter!"

Gale's eyebrows rose sharply. He knew that name. Volo was a prolific, if not particularly esteemed writer. From the little Gale had experienced of his writing, he was prone to exaggeration, if not outright falsehood. 

Volo continued, apparently oblivious to his precarious situation. "I came here to investigate reports of this fascinating new deity for my next publication. Purely academic interest! Though I must say, the hospitality here leaves something to be desired..."

The goblin brandished her club menacingly. "Shut it, pigeon! You sing when I tell you to sing!"

Gale weighed their options. On one hand, Volo was an innocent. On the other hand, Volo was not Halsin and they couldn’t risk failing in their goal. They needed Halsin if they were to be free of the parasites in their heads. Once Halsin was safe, perhaps. He cleared his throat diplomatically. "I see,” he said to the goblin. “Well, this clearly isn't our druid. We'll leave you to your... entertainment."

They turned to leave, but Wren froze as she reached for the door, her hand stopping in midair as if she'd walked into an invisible wall. Gale watched in confusion as something passed across her face that he couldn't quite read.

She sighed and turned around, saying, "We can't leave him here. We have to get him out." She closed the door firmly and turned toward the goblin with grim determination.

Gale stopped mid-stride, completely bewildered by the sudden reversal. "We... what?" He stared at her. She looked angry about her own decision, as if she was acting against her better judgment. "Wren, is this a good idea? This man, whoever he is, isn't our mission."

The hurt in his voice surprised him. Since the beginning, Wren had always checked in with him before taking action for them both. Why had she suddenly stopped? Was it to do with last night? 

Despite his confusion, he prepared to fight. Whatever Wren's reasons, he would support her. The fight that followed was brief but intense. Wren's whirlstar took the goblin in the throat, and when the creature came up swinging wildly, Gale was ready with his magic missiles. "Tormentum!" he vocalized softly, sending three bolts of force into the wounded creature.

Volo watched the entire encounter with apparent delight. "Remarkable! Absolutely remarkable! I simply must include this in my next volume: 'Volo's Guide to Daring Rescues,' perhaps?"

As Gale worked to free the man, he couldn't shake his confusion about Wren's sudden change of heart. Once freed, Wren directed Volo to their previous night’s campsite to wait for them. He popped an invisibility potion and presumably, left. Once they were alone, Gale couldn’t keep from asking.

“I confess myself curious about the sudden change of heart,” he said carefully. “A moment ago you were quite ready to leave him to his musical career, and then..." He couldn't quite hide the disappointment in his voice. It felt like a step backward in the trust they'd been building.

Wren hesitated, and he could see her internal struggle. When she looked at him, something in his expression seemed to tip the balance.

"Mystra," she said simply. "She ordered me to rescue him. Before you ask, I have no idea why. She doesn't answer my questions, just gives orders."

Gale’s world tilted as a flood of emotions crashed through him. He was rocked by waves of hurt and confusion. That was followed by a jealousy so sharp it made the orb in his chest flutter. Mystra had been here in this room. She had spoken to Wren and he hadn’t felt even a whisper of the connection that had once been the defining relationship of his life.

"She was here," he said, struggling to keep his voice level even as his heart pounded. "Mystra was here and I..." He turned to face Wren, searching her face as if it could reveal some explanation that might make this hurt less. "I felt nothing. Not the faintest hint of her presence."

His hand moved to his chest, where the orb provided a constant reminder of his failures. "There was a time when I would have known the moment she drew near. Her presence echoed like music in my soul. I could feel her attention like warmth from a fire." He shook his head. "Now she hides herself from me so completely that she can speak to you right at my side, and I remain oblivious."

The pain in his voice was raw and undeniable. To be so thoroughly cut off from someone who had once been everything to him was like a knife in the back. It was a blow he hadn’t been prepared for in the midst of an already dark day. 

But even as he wallowed in his own hurt, he noticed Wren's reaction. Her face remained carefully controlled, but he could feel electricity building around her. A few sparks snapped around her fingers. When she spoke, her voice contained a wounded undertone to match his own.

"Why do you care so much?" she asked, her tone low and harsh. "Do you really want to speak to her so badly?"

The sparks around her fingers intensified before she snapped them into fists. "I will happily give her up to you," she continued, her voice steeped in a bitterness that made Gale's heart ache. "You may take her orders from now on and dance to her tune. You may bask in her presence to your heart's content, if that’s what you desire."

She stared at nothing, refusing to meet his eyes. "But then... I imagine the way she speaks to you is quite different from the way she speaks to me."

Her words struck through his self-pity and suddenly Gale saw the situation from her perspective. Here was Wren, who had been shaped into a weapon by divine command, who had never known the warm communion he'd once shared with Mystra, watching him mourn for something she'd never been offered.

"Oh, Wren..." he said. "No. No, that's not... I don't want her orders. I don't want to dance to her tune." He stepped closer, struggling to find the right words to explain. "It's true... when she spoke to me, she made me feel special. She made me feel like I was the center of her universe." His own voice turned bitter now. "Right up until the moment she cast me aside like a broken toy."

He caught her eyes with his, forcing her to meet his gaze.. "Knowing how she treats you, how she's always treated you..." He met her eyes, seeing the long-held pain there. "It makes me realize that perhaps what I thought was love was just another form of manipulation." The realization was like a key turning in a lock. Mystra had never loved him. She had used him, like she used Wren. The only difference was the flavor of the manipulation.

"I cannot lie," he admitted. "I was jealous that she still speaks to you. It reminded me of everything I lost through my own folly. But I would never trade your voice for hers. Not now. Not after knowing you."

His sincerity cut through her anger and her jealousy dissolved. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I didn't mean to... I'm not angry at you, you must know that. It’s just … when I am reminded of what she had with you … it hurts. It’s something I may never get to have with you."

Those small red spots burned on her cheeks. "And she is a goddess," she said, her voice small and defeated. "I'm afraid I've little to offer in comparison to that."

Gale's heart broke at her admission. "Wren," he said, reaching out, then remembering he couldn’t touch her. "You have nothing to apologize for. And as for having little to offer..."

He thought of all the ways she had surprised and delighted him. "Do you know what Mystra offered me? Power, yes. Knowledge, certainly. The illusion of being elevated above other mortals." He turned to her. "But do you know what she never offered?"

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "She never saw me the way you do. She never saw past my magic and my abilities to the man you capture so accurately in your drawings. She never risked herself to protect me, and never stayed at my side to help calm my fears through my darkest nights."

The truth of it hit him as he spoke. "She never chose me over her own divine duty, Wren. But you did. You chose me, even when you shouldn't have." His voice caught on that admission. "What you offer isn't less than what a goddess can give. It's more, and more importantly, it's real."

Her eyes glowed silver, even though her face remained controlled. "It is real, isn't it?" Her fingers brushed over his in a small caress that conveyed more than any grand declaration.

Then reality set in and she shook her head. "We've no time for this silliness," she said, though her voice was gentle. "Wizard, you are making me soft."

Her lips had that tiny quirk that was her version of a smile, and Gale felt his heart lift despite everything. "Soft?" he said with gentle humor. "I prefer to think I'm just revealing the person who was always hidden beneath your armor."

They left the room and slipped down a dark hallway that led deeper into the temple. The way was narrow and deserted. They picked their way silently through the rubble and debris. Suddenly, Gale felt a subtle mental touch, like someone gently knocking at the door of his consciousness. It was Wren, through the connection created by the tadpole.

This was different from the violent intrusion they'd experienced from the Absolute. This was careful, tentative, asking rather than demanding. It reminded him of last night's sharing through the Weave, but quieter, more controlled.

He relaxed his mental barriers, allowing the connection to form. Through the link, he projected welcome and curiosity. As the connection was established, he continued moving forward carefully, still watching for dangers. 

The message that came through was hesitant and quiet. Wren’s inner voice sounded more fragile than her spoken words ever had.

"Sometimes I hate her. Mystra, I mean. Is that wrong? Is it evil to feel that way?"

The raw honesty and self-doubt in the words shook Gale to his core. Through their connection, he could feel the terror of a person who had been taught that her own feelings were sinful and wrong.

This was what Mystra had done to her. This beautiful, strong, compassionate woman had been made to fear her own righteous anger, to kill off her own feelings.

His response flowed back immediately: "Oh, Wren. Evil? No. You could never be evil." He sent his absolute conviction along with the words. "To feel anger at injustice isn't evil. It's proof that despite everything they've done to make you into a weapon, your heart is still fighting for itself."

He shared his own memories of rage and despair: the bitter nights in his tower when he'd cursed Mystra's name, the moments when he'd felt utterly abandoned. "I've hated her too, Wren. Does that make us evil? Or does it just mean we have feelings about the things that are done to us?"

His mental touch grew more protective, flowing over hers like a shield: "Your anger isn’t sinful. It proves there's still a part of you that knows you deserve better."

Her response came like a dam bursting. Her thoughts flowed freely, having finally found a safe place to voice her deepest fears:

I thought I had stopped being angry long ago. I thought I had left all of those feelings behind with my childhood. But last night I felt how different your connection to Mystra is from mine. My life... it didn't have to be this way.

Gale, why did Mystra choose to make me... this? Did my anger and my difficulty make me faulty? 

The thoughts paused, and he could feel her gathering courage for the next admission: Whatever I lacked... I cannot help but despise her for it. I didn't ask to be this way. I don't want to be this way. But I am what she made me.

The pain in her mental voice triggered something fierce and protective in Gale that surprised him with its intensity. His mental presence wrapped around hers like an embrace, and his response carried all the conviction he could muster:

"Wren, no. Listen to me. You are not faulty. You never were."

Through the connection, he shared his memories of her. Not the weapon Mystra had tried to create, but the woman he'd come to know. Her courage in facing down Kagha, her gentle voice calming his orb, her moments of unexpected tenderness. 

"What Mystra did to you wasn't because you were lacking something. It was because she wanted your power controlled, contained, shaped into something that served her purposes rather than your own nature."

His mental voice grew harder, edged with his own anger: "She saw a storm and decided it needed to be caged. She saw strength and rebellion and independence, and she broke those things because they threatened her control. That isn't wisdom. That's fear. Fear of what you might become if you were free to choose."

The connection pulsed with warmth as he continued: "You are exactly who you were meant to be. The furious girl I saw in your memories, the one who refused to surrender. She's still there. She's the one who couldn't kill me when duty demanded it. She's the real you, and she's magnificent. We have each other now. Let her go, Wren. Turn to me instead."

Within their tadpole connection, he felt Wren's presence intertwine with his, curling around him as if to embrace his very essence. The sensation was unlike anything he'd experienced with Mystra. Where divine communion had been overwhelming and consuming, this was gentle and mutual, a joining of equals.

"I will if you will do the same," she promised. "Let us turn to each other."

Through the tadpole connection, Gale's mental presence responded with overwhelming acquiescence and relief. There was a sense of something heavy and painful finally being released. The chains of old devotion and heartache fell away like shackles he hadn't realized he was still carrying.

"Yes," he responded without hesitation, his consciousness reaching back toward hers in the mental equivalent of pulling her close. "Yes, absolutely yes. No more looking backward to what she took from us, or what she withheld. No more seeking approval from someone who never truly saw our worth."

The connection pulsed with something like joy mixed with fierce determination. "We turn to each other. We build something that belongs to no goddess and serves no divine agenda. Just... us."

Even as they became immersed in their silent conversation, Gale remained aware of their physical movement through the dark corridor. His body reached out carefully in the darkness, his fingers briefly finding hers in an echo of their mental connection made manifest. The dual sensation—mind joined with mind, and hand touching hand—created a completeness he'd never felt before. 

With that small physical touch, he felt Wren gently withdraw from the tadpole connection, her fingers pressing against his once more before separating. He saw her tense beside him as light flickered at the end of the corridor ahead.

"I think there's something up ahead," she whispered aloud. "Let's proceed carefully but don't forget: we're True Souls. We belong here."

As they stepped out of the corridor into the dim torchlight, Gale watched the transformation that came over his companion. That vulnerable, questioning Wren who had shared her deepest fears disappeared, replaced by the hardened, dangerous woman the world saw. Now he understood it differently. It was not coldness, it was armor and it  protected something infinitely precious.

The light ahead flickered and somewhere in the darkness beyond, Halsin waited for rescue. But Gale was no longer thinking primarily of their mission. He was thinking about the possibility of a future neither goddess nor orb could dictate. 

Chapter Text

"In the old tales, we see many mentions of the three heroes that walked as one. The Wizard, the Warrior-Maiden, and The Wild Man. Hand in hand they walked where the light had died and their love rekindled that light.  In the songs of the cursed times, they always appear, banishing the darkness with the radiance of their devotion to each other." 

—Songs of the Shadowlands

Wren

Wren and Gale emerged from the dark passageway into a deeper area of the temple, one that appeared to have once housed crypts. As they stepped out of the dark walkway, they heard howls. A moment later, they heard a fearsome growl.

"That's got to be him," said Wren. "They must have put him in their animal pen." Her voice was dripping with anger and disgust.

Gale's expression darkened and he moved closer to the door where the noises came from. The growls were interspersed with the jeering voices of goblins. "We'll need to move quickly," he said. "A shapeshifted bear can be dangerous to allies too if he's been tormented."

Wren wasted no time. She shoved through to the animal pens, closing the door behind them as Gale entered. The room looked like an old prison that had been repurposed. In one of the cells, two worgs paced, howling. In the other was an immense cave bear. Two goblin children stood before the cell throwing rocks at the bear as he growled in fury.

Wren dropped all pretense and ran toward them. "Stop that!" she yelled, her voice booming with thunder. The goblins all turned to look at her and as they did, the bear rose on his hind legs and began smashing the cell door. It gave under his tremendous strength and he fell forward with it, crushing the goblin woman who stood in front of the cell.

The two children started running for the door, screaming for help. Wren stepped into their way, stunning them with an electric touch and dragging them into an empty cell. 

From the other side of the room, the beastmaster and his assistant approached, ready to fight. From above, a guard ran out of a small chamber.

Gale's hands were already moving as chaos erupted around them. The sight of children throwing stones at a caged bear had ignited something fierce in him as well.

"Tormentum!" he called out, his voice filled with anger. Three bolts of pure magical force streaked toward the guard, each one guided by unerring precision. The missiles struck in rapid succession, staggering the goblin backward.

Even as he cast, the cave bear leapt into the room. He was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. He was easily eight feet tall when he reared onto his hind legs. His claws looked like they  could rend stone and his roar felt like it shook the room to its foundations.

"Halsin?" Gale called out. "We're here to help!"

The freed bear looked at him and gave a brief nod, then snapped its gaze back to the remaining goblins.

Meanwhile, the beastmaster's assistant was moving to release the worgs, fumbling with the heavy keys while shouting commands in Goblin.

"Wren!" Gale called out. "Don't let him loose those beasts!"

Wren nodded, but before she went to take on the goblin at the worg cell, she said something quietly. A mantle of light settled over Gale as she shielded him with her divine magic before moving. 

As she finished the spell, winds rose around her, stirring the small hairs around her face. She rode the winds to the cell, her arm outstretched. A loud ringing noise exploded around the goblin and thunder clapped within his head. He dropped the keys and slammed into the bars as the force of it broke within his skull. The sound echoed into the cells, dazing the worgs.

The massive bear had turned his attention to the beastmaster who was scrambling backward, club raised defensively. The goblin's eyes were wide with terror as nearly half a ton of furious cave bear advanced on him.

Gale turned back to the guard. Wren’s thunder reverberated within him and lightning crackled between his fingers before he even thought to call it. "Perure," he vocalized, giving it shape and a target. The bolt of lightning streaked across the room, catching the guard squarely in the chest.  He fell back, sprawled against the far wall. 

Behind Wren, the beastmaster whistled. A giant spider came crawling out from some hole, making a beeline for Gale and the bear. Halsin leaped between them, roared and swiped first at the beastmaster and then his pet. The beastmaster fell back, bleeding from multiple wounds. The spider skittered away screeching, all but dead.

Meanwhile the beastmaster's assistant had recovered from his daze, retrieved his keys, and was trying again to free the worgs. Before he could touch the key to the lock, one of Wren's whirlstars buried itself in the back of his neck, sparking with lightning. He fell to the ground, twitching from the electricity, then went still. The whirlstar returned to Wren's hand.

The dying spider let out a piercing shriek as it curled in on itself. Gale turned his attention to the wounded beastmaster who was struggling to rise. "I think not," Gale said. He channeled thunder and felt it roar into him, amplified by his connection to Wren.

The thunder rolled from his fingertips in a concussive wave that slammed into the beastmaster. The goblin lifted from the ground and slammed into the stone wall with bone-crushing force. He didn’t rise again. 

The massive cave bear turned toward them, his great head swaying as he seemed to be fighting to regain control of his wild form. The intelligence in his eyes struggled against the bestial fury.

Gale took a careful step forward, his voice gentle but clear. "Easy, friend. The fight is over. You're safe now. Can you change back?" he asked Halsin softly. "We've come a very long way to find you."

Between one breath and the next, the bear became a man. A bear of a man. He was the largest wood elf Wren had ever seen. His muscular build and scarred face spoke of many adventures and many fights.

Wren's eyes automatically scanned him. The breadth of his shoulders suggested tremendous physical strength, the scars on his face and arms indicated extensive combat experience, and his hands bore the calluses of someone who did extensive manual labor. Formidable, she assessed. But there is kindness in his eyes. He is not like Kagha.

"Pardon the viscera," Halsin said in a low, growly voice. "One should cherish all of nature's bounty, but goblin guts are quite far down the list." He looked Wren over as she approached, his gaze growing appreciative as he took her in. "I owe you my thanks. I am the druid Halsin."

"I'm Wren," she said, ignoring his appraising look. "This is Gale. We've come from the Grove. It's in danger, and so are we. We have a problem with some tadpoles?” She tapped her head. “Your apprentice said you might be able to help."

Halsin stepped closer to Wren. Very close. He took her hand in his. The contact was warm, firm, and confident. She resisted the urge to jerk her hand away. He is a wood elf, she reminded herself, be patient with him.

"Wren," he said. "If I were your parent, I would have named you Sparrowhawk. Your beauty is only enhanced by your ferocity." He smiled warmly at her. "But forgive me, you spoke of the Grove. I am aware of the danger. I foolishly left it vulnerable to this rabble."

Through the tadpole connection, Wren felt something sharp and uncomfortable spike from Gale's direction. She glanced at him and noticed him looking at Halsin, his fingers drumming rapidly against his robes.

"You say you've been infected?" Halsin continued, examining both Wren and Gale's faces. "But something's different. You're aware of the monster inside you. You don't bow to the Absolute, like the True Souls do. How is this possible?"

Gale took a half-step closer to Wren, close enough that his shoulder nearly touched hers. "We don't know," he replied, his voice more clipped than usual. "The tadpoles were implanted aboard a nautiloid that crashed into the Chionthar. We should have transformed by now, but we haven't. We're hoping you might have some insight into why."

Gale’s foot tapped a rapid rhythm on the stone floor. "Time is rather of the essence, I'm afraid. For the Grove's sake as much as our own."

"I see," said Halsin, and his gaze took in Gale with the same warmth that he showed Wren.. "Be that as it may, the only way to restore the natural order is to eliminate this goblin threat. Help me kill the leaders of this horde. Save my Grove, then I will help you."

Wren gently removed her hand from the druid's and considered his words. Something seemed to ease in the connection between her and Gale as well. He was always agitated after a fight, perhaps it was just that.

Wren turned her attention back to Halsin. "If we help you now, you will help us with the tadpoles?"

Halsin looked at them both sincerely. "I will," he promised. "Three deaths could win peace for the Grove: the drow, Minthara; the hobgoblin Dror Ragzlin, and the High Priestess, Gut. They are the ones holding these cultists together in this area. Remove them and nature will cure itself."

Getting in a fight with the goblin leaders was exactly what Wren had hoped to avoid. But if this was the price of a cure... she turned to check with Gale and found him standing very close to her. Between the two men, both larger than her, she suddenly felt uncomfortably claustrophobic.

She stepped back from both, giving herself some space, and asked: "Gale, what do you think?"

Gale flushed as she stepped away and he also took a deliberate step back. "Three specific targets rather than an entire army," he mused. "It's ambitious, certainly, but far more achievable than attempting to face this horde in open battle."

He glanced between Wren and Halsin, then shook his head and returned to his analysis. His words came faster now. "The question becomes one of approach. These leaders will be well-guarded, likely in the most defensible positions within the camp. Their defenses will probably—" He caught himself, clearing his throat. "But if eliminating them truly would scatter their forces and lift the threat from the Grove..."

He met Wren's eyes directly. "We came here seeking a cure for our condition. If this is the price Halsin asks, and if he truly can help us afterward..." He paused, then added more softly, "I trust your judgment, Wren. What does your instinct tell you?"

Wren considered Gale's words. As usual, he picked up on the big picture very quickly. As she thought through it herself, she couldn't help but agree. Three targets we can plan for weighed against a cure for the tadpoles and safety for those refugees. She turned back to the druid. "Very well. We will deal with these goblin leaders. You can get back to the Grove and keep it safe."

Halsin shook his head. "There is no safety. Not while this rot festers. Once it is cut out—once I know the Grove is secure—then I will leave. Let me come with you."

Wren considered. His bear form would be advantageous. And he knows the camp layout. "Come then," she said, "a bear companion may prove useful."

He grinned. "My thanks. If you prevail, I'll owe you the debt of a lifetime. May Silvanus guide your hand. Focus on the leaders. That's all it will take to restore the balance here."

Gale nodded, though his expression remained carefully neutral. "Your bear form will indeed be formidable," he acknowledged, though his voice lacked its usual warmth. "And three against their leadership is far better odds than two."

As Halsin spoke, Gale positioned himself slightly between the druid and Wren, as if unconsciously shielding her. There's definitely something wrong here, Wren thought, but it felt rude to communicate directly through the tadpole in front of another, so she let it drop.

"What's our first target?" Gale asked, looking between them both but letting his gaze linger on Wren. "And more importantly, how do we get there without alerting the entire camp?"

"That one is easy," Halsin said. "Minthara's base of operations is in an alcove just beyond this room. She keeps herself apart from the goblins, so we should be able to take her without too much trouble."

He went on to tell them what he knew of the other leaders. "Gut is branding prisoners in the main square but she has quarters to herself. If we can catch her going back to them, we only have to fight her and her ogre bodyguard."

"Dror Ragzlin will be the hardest. He is surrounded by his warband in the heart of the camp. We will have to fight all of them to dispatch him."

Wren listened to all of this carefully, automatically assessing the challenges. Minthara first makes sense. The closest and most isolated target, and the least chance of alerting the whole camp. "Minthara it is then. Let's take care of her first, then discuss what's next."

They found the drow paladin in her private quarters, studying maps by candlelight. Her pale hair gleamed like moonlight as she looked up at their approach, her crimson eyes taking in their party and settling on Wren.

"Well?" Minthara addressed Wren curtly, assuming they were scouts. "Make your report, darthiir, our time is growing short."

The fight was swift but brutal. Minthara's deadly smites made her a formidable opponent, but the magical synchronization between Wren and Gale felt even more intense with Halsin present. Combined with Halsin's savage bear form, they proved overwhelming. Minthara fell with a curse on her lips.

The High Priestess proved more cunning. Surrounded by fanatics, they had to wait a long while to catch her in isolation. They eventually caught her in her chambers, gleefully pawing through stolen goods, her ogre bodyguard looming protectively beside her.

Gut's divine magic crackled with dark energy as she called upon the Absolute's power, but Wren's own divine connection proved stronger. The battle became a contest of faiths as much as steel and spell, with Halsin's bear form serving as the decisive factor when he broke through the ogre's defenses, leaving Gut to face three powerful foes alone.

Dror Ragzlin's defeat required all their wits. The hobgoblin warlord was surrounded by his most loyal followers in the heart of the camp, and a direct assault would have been suicide. Instead, they climbed into the rafters, hitting the warband from above. Halsin defended the ladder, keeping enemies from reaching them, while Wren and Gale unleashed their combined magical fury onto the goblins and cultists below.

That final battle was the most intense yet. Thunder and lightning crashed through the ancient temple. The power flowing between them felt charged with a new potency. When Ragzlin and his defenders finally fell, the rest of the camp scattered like leaves before a hurricane.

They made their way back to the nave and stood amidst the aftermath. Arcane energy still crackled faintly around Gale's fingers, and Wren still snapped with electricity as they entered the now-quiet sanctum. Gale's robes were singed and torn in places, and there was a cut along his left temple, but he was alive. That was all Wren cared about. Everything else could be fixed.

Gale looked to Wren, searching her face for signs of injury or exhaustion. "Are you hurt? That last spell Ragzlin's warlock managed before Halsin finished him looked rather too close for comfort."

"I am all right," Wren responded. "Some minor injuries, but nothing a little healing or a potion won't fix."

Halsin immediately stepped in, taking Wren's hand again and casting healing magic upon her. "Let me take care of you," he said, his low voice gentle. "It is the least I can do to thank you for your help."

Again, he just grabbed her with no warning. She would never get used to wood elves. She took a breath and endured it for the healing. Through their connection, she felt another spike of that hot, uncomfortable emotion from Gale's direction. Could he sense her discomfort? She was trying to hide it, for Halsin’s sake.

"Thank you," Wren said, then stepped away immediately. "And you, do either of you have anything that needs healing?" Though she addressed both men, her gaze immediately turned to Gale. She caught sight of the cut and quickly went over, brushing her thumb along the cut while speaking a healing word to mend it. "Anything else?" she asked.

"Much better, thank you," Gale said softly, his voice warm with affection. "Though I confess I'm more concerned about you. That lightning bolt you redirected during the Ragzlin fight... the magical feedback alone should have been enough to knock you senseless."

Gale turned his attention back to Halsin. "Now then," he said, looking back toward the sanctum's exit, "shall we see about those tadpoles? I believe we've held up our end of the bargain."

Halsin stepped forward, taking Wren's head gently in his hands. A golden light played around his fingers and a look of concentration came over his face. After a few minutes he stepped back, shaking his head. He did the same to Gale, with the same results.

He looked apologetic as he explained to them what he had observed: "Someone is using very powerful magic to modify these tadpoles. I'm sorry to say I can't undo that magic, which means I can't remove the tadpoles, not without killing you, or worse… triggering ceremorphosis."

The disappointment hit Wren hard. After all the infiltration, the fighting, and the risk, he can't help us after all. She tried not to direct her anger at the druid. It was not his fault that he couldn't cure them, but she wished they had determined this before they fought half the goblin camp for him.

He quickly continued, "But that doesn't mean I can't help. I've found where the tadpoles came from. That must be where these enchantments are placed on them, and where you'll find your cure."

"Where?" demanded Wren.

"I overheard that the cultists are sending all of their captives to Moonrise Towers," Halsin replied. "Innocents go in, True Souls come out. Given that all of these True Souls are infected, it has to be the source of this magic. If you want to find a cure, you must head there and discover how the tadpoles are being manipulated."

"Moonrise Towers?" said Wren. "I don't know it. It sounds Selûnite, but that can't be right if that’s where the tadpoles come from. Gale, do you know this place?"

Gale's expression grew thoughtful. "Moonrise Towers," he repeated. "Yes, I know of it, though what I know is troubling in light of current circumstances."

He began to pace, his hands moving in small gestures as he organized his thoughts. "It was indeed once a bastion of Selûnite worship, as you suspected. But that was long ago." His voice grew more grave. "The towers fell under a terrible shadow curse decades past. The entire region around them became a place where light fails and life withers. It's said that nothing good can survive there for long."

He paused, meeting Wren's eyes. "If that's truly where we must go to find our cure, it will be far more dangerous than anything we've faced thus far. The shadow curse alone is said to drive travelers mad, and that's before accounting for whatever forces have made it their stronghold."

His gaze shifted briefly to Halsin. "Though I suspect our druid friend here knows more about the specifics than my dusty recollections can provide. The Western Heartlands are more his domain than mine."

"Are you certain this is our only option?" She directed the question to Halsin.

"It is the only option I can help you with," offered Halsin. "But I once walked those lands extensively. And in fact, I have business of my own there. If you would have me, I will accompany you there as your guide. I know the route and its dangers well. It would give us time to get to know one another as well. I certainly would welcome that."

He smiled warmly at Wren again, and then after a moment at Gale too. 

"That's... very generous of you," Gale replied. There was a subtle edge beneath the politeness, then his words came faster. "Though I think we should discuss the logistics of such an arrangement before making any commitments. There are many factors to consider: group dynamics, resource allocation, and other logistics for a larger party..."

He stepped slightly closer to Wren again and casually placed a hand on her shoulder. "The shadow curse you mentioned—" The contact startled Wren. She looked down in surprise and he started, then quickly removed his hand. "Surely traveling through such dangerous territory would be safer with a smaller group? Fewer people to keep track of, less chance of anyone falling prey to whatever malevolent influences lurk there."

He doesn’t want Halsin to go with us, Wren realized suddenly. 

His eyes flicked between Wren and Halsin. "Perhaps we should return to the Grove first, assess our resources, and then discuss the best approach?" He said it as if it was mere logic, but Wren felt an echo of pleading in their connection. "After all, there's no need to make such important decisions while standing amidst goblin corpses."

He looked to Wren, seeking her support. "What do you think? Shouldn't we take time to properly plan our next move?"

Wren looked at Gale, puzzled. He had been acting strange since they had met Halsin. She could feel agitation bleeding through their tadpole connection, but the reason for it didn’t come through.

Perhaps the orb... So far they had avoided traveling with others because of the danger it presented. A guide who knew the route and the dangers would be very helpful on this next stage of their journey, but perhaps it was too risky. Whatever it was, Gale clearly wanted to speak with her alone. They were partners in this now, and his judgment had been sound so far. She should respect that.

"Yes, that's a good idea," Wren offered. "Halsin, why don't you return and see to your people? We will follow after and let you know our plans when we arrive. And if you wouldn't mind doing us a favor?"

She described Volo to Halsin and told him where he waited, requesting that Halsin escort Volo back to the Grove as well. The druid readily agreed, transformed back into his bear form and bounded off.

As soon as he was gone, Wren felt Gale's relief wash through their connection like a warm tide.

She turned to him immediately. "Would you care to tell me what's going on? I can feel something through this tadpole connection. It's like you've got a rash that's bothering you. You haven't, have you? Because I can help with that..." she offered.

Gale's cheeks flushed, and he ran a hand through his hair. That nervous gesture betrayed his discomfort more clearly than any words could.

"A rash," he repeated with a humorless laugh. "Well, that's certainly one way to put it, though I assure you it's nothing that requires your healing touch."

"It's..." he started, then stopped, searching for the right words. "Wren, I'm not entirely certain how to say this without sounding like a complete fool."

Finally, he looked at her, his eyes embarrassed but determined. "The way he looks at you," he said finally. "The way he speaks to you. The way he touches you so casually, and stands so close... It bothers me. More than it should. More than I have any right to be bothered by it."

He fell silent again for a bit, then continued. The words came out in a rush. "I know I have no claim on you, no right to feel entitled to have you all to myself. We're traveling companions, friends, and perhaps something more complex than that, but not..." He gestured helplessly. "Not anything that would give me the right to object to another man's interest in you."

Wren stared at Gale in confusion for a moment. "The way he looks at me?" She puzzled over this. "Halsin?" And suddenly everything clicked into place. Understanding flooded through her like cold water. The way he had continually moved closer to her, his hand on her shoulder, the strange looks, the tension in his voice.

Jealousy. Gale is jealous of Halsin. The realization was both startling and oddly endearing. 

"Gale," she explained patiently, stepping closer to him. "Halsin is a wood elf. That is just how they are. He is more friendly to me than you because I am also an elf. Humans tend to be less receptive, at least at first. But if we do travel with him, I'd wager he'd happily invite either or both of us into his bedroll if we showed the slightest inclination."

She moved even closer to him. "But Gale, I don't have the slightest inclination. If he were to ask me, I would decline."

Gale's shoulders visibly sagged, and Wren felt relief flow through their connection, followed immediately by a wave of embarrassment. "Either or both of us," he repeated, his cheeks reddening further. "Well, that's... illuminating."

He looked down at his hands, then back up at Wren. "I feel rather ridiculous now," he admitted. "Here I was, constructing elaborate scenarios of romantic rivalry when the man was simply being... wood elvish."

His expression grew more serious. "Though I confess, even knowing it's simply his nature doesn't entirely alleviate the feeling." He paused, weighing his words carefully. "You may be right about wood elf culture in general, but I'm not entirely convinced his interest in you is purely... cultural."

"What do you mean?" Wren asked.

"The way he looked at you specifically, Wren. Not just friendly, but appreciative. Interested." Gale's voice was gentle but certain. "Wood elf or not, he's a man, and you're..." He gestured helplessly. "Well, you're you. Beautiful, fierce, remarkable. I don't think you see yourself clearly sometimes."

Wren felt heat rise in her cheeks. "I think you're reading too much into it."

"Perhaps," Gale conceded. "But I've seen how men look at women they desire, and wood elf ‘friendliness’ aside, I'd wager that's what I witnessed. Not that it matters," he added quickly, "since you've made your feelings clear."

He paused, studying her face. "You find this amusing, don't you? My descent into foolishness?" His voice was warm despite his embarrassment. "I am grateful to know where you stand on the matter."

"I’m glad I could clear that up for you," Wren said. "I feel a little foolish myself that I didn’t understand. I can't say that I've inspired jealousy before. I didn’t imagine I ever would. I am…" She trailed off, but her mind finished the thought. I am a tool, not a person. I am used, not admired.  

She looked Gale in the eye so he could see how sincere she was. "We may only be friends ‘plus,’ Gale, but that 'plus' does mean something to me. I respect it enough not to look elsewhere, even for meaningless pleasure."

She stuck one of her boots forward and just gently knocked the toe of it against his, then brought it back, that tiny little smile on her face.

"Friends plus," Gale repeated softly. "I find myself increasingly fond of that designation, limited though it may be."

He searched her face. "I am so glad to hear you say that. Even if I cannot offer you more..." He paused then kept going. "The thought of seeing you with another, even in some meaningless dalliance, I don't think I could stand it."

He stepped just slightly closer, not quite touching. "You may consider me thoroughly reassured. Though I suspect I'll still find myself watching him with perhaps more scrutiny than strictly necessary." His lips curved in a self-deprecating smile. "Old habits, I'm afraid."

"I can live with that," Wren said. "Just don't watch him too closely, or I might be the one getting jealous."

Would I be jealous? she wondered. If Halsin took his hand, and stood so close to him?  Or if Gale looked at someone else the way he is looking at me? 

The realization surprised her. Yes, she would be jealous. Very jealous.

Then she remembered they were standing in the middle of a slaughter. "So does that mean you will accept him as our traveling companion? We might as well, since Mystra has made it clear we are to take Volo with us. I will miss our quiet camp." She sighed wistfully. "But that means we have to talk about the orb."

Gale's expression immediately sobered. His hand moved unconsciously to his chest. "Yes," he said seriously. "If we're to travel with others, we cannot ignore the risk." He met her eyes. "The meditation techniques you've taught me have been remarkably effective, but there's no guarantee they'll work indefinitely.“

Wren could feel his dread through their connection. "If it becomes unstable again, if I show signs of losing control while we're traveling with Halsin and Volo..." He swallowed hard. "Could you enact the protocol? Not just for my sake, but to protect them?"

There was pain in his voice, but also complete faith that if anyone could make such an impossible choice, it would be her. "I need to know that you could do it."

"If it’s what you want, I will do it,” she replied without hesitation. “If, and only if, you are sure. But if you are sure, I will do it" 

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I know what I'm asking of you. The fact that you would..." He swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence. He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she chose, and gently took her hand in his. He's more afraid than he's letting on, she thought.

"It's a strange sort of comfort," he admitted. "Knowing that it would be you. That the last thing I'd see would be someone who..." He paused, struggling with words that wanted to be spoken but couldn't. "Someone who matters to me."

His grip on her hand tightened slightly. "Let us hope it never comes to that. The meditation has been working, and perhaps we'll find a cure at these Moonrise Towers. Perhaps we'll have more time than we dare to hope for."

His eyes grew soft and hopeful. "More time to explore what friends plus might mean." He hesitated, then spoke, his voice soft and pleading. “Wren, do you ever think about what we could be if circumstances were different?” 

Wren squeezed Gale's hand back. As she did, she could feel the orb reach out, like a hound sniffing for her magic. She held on for as long as she dared, then slid her hand away.

Always between us. Always there, waiting.

"If circumstances were different," she repeated, with bitter irony. "That's what I've been imagining all my life."

If I hadn't been born with storm sorcery. If I had been born to a different family. If I’d been given to a different god. No amount of imagining can change it.

But that’s not what she said out loud. "So why stop now, I guess?" She had turned from the path set for her already, and there was no going back. I chose him over Mystra's orders once. I'd do it again. Whatever that means for my soul, and my future... I would do it again. 

"Why stop now, indeed," Gale agreed softly. "Let’s get out of here," he said, glancing around at the carnage they were leaving behind. "This place has altogether too much atmosphere for my taste."

He gestured toward the exit with a slight bow that managed to be both courtly and clownish. "After you, my little sparrowhawk. Let's away from this charnel house and back to something resembling civilization." In his voice was the heartbreaking tenderness of someone who had found something precious that he knew he couldn't keep.

Chapter Text

"When the Aspirant laid bare his soul, the Liberator saw the beauty of his Ambition. Bound together with perfect understanding and holy purpose, they spoke the Words that would reshape destiny: 'We shall have all the impossible things.' What mortals thought beyond reach, the Gods-to-Be claimed as their sacred right." 

— The Tablets of Ascending Glory, Eighth Canto

Gale

They made their way back to the Emerald Grove, exhausted not just from the fight but from the knowledge of the grueling and dangerous path that stretched before them. There was also triumph, knowing that they had brought a certain measure of peace to the Grove. For Gale, also, there was a quiet contentment as he thought over the way Wren had calmed his jealousy without judgment, the careful boundaries they'd established, and the trust that had bloomed between them like some rare flower.

After walking in silence for some time, lost in their own thoughts, Gale found himself stealing glances at Wren. He wondered what she was thinking about, if her thoughts were anything like his. From the outside, she looked the same as always. She moved with economical grace, scanning the road and the wilderness beyond. Was her mind only on the mission of getting them back to the Grove safely, or like him, did she have other, more complicated thoughts that kept her silent? 

The orb pulsed gently in his chest, a constant reminder of the barriers between them. With each beat, it seemed to whisper of all the reasons he should keep his distance. But in his mind, he heard her saying: We may only be friends ‘plus,’ Gale, but that 'plus' does mean something to me. It made him want to offer her something in return, something true. 

He'd been debating for a long time whether to open up to her completely. Could he handle revealing to her the full measure of his greatest failure? Could he open himself to the consequences of letting her see him at his worst? He would risk changing the way she felt about him, perhaps losing the tentative connection they had built. At the same time, he would allow himself to be truly known by someone who might actually understand. It felt worth the risk. 

"Wren," he said finally, breaking the silence. "Might we rest for a moment? There's something I'd like to share with you. Something important."

Wren stopped, turning to him. "Of course," she replied. "Let me just find a suitable spot."

As she looked, Gale felt his courage falter. He could still change his mind and deflect with humor as he so often did to avoid true vulnerability. She led them to a small clearing with a fallen log and settled herself on it. When she turned her attention to him, her gray eyes soft and expectant, he found the resolve to continue. 

"So?" She nudged him gently. He sat down beside her, close enough that he could feel her next to him, but not close enough to touch. For once, words didn’t come easily to him. His hands moved restlessly, straightening his robes, clasping then unclasping, as he gathered his thoughts. Wren waited patiently and quietly beside him. Her stillness steadied him and he decided to just begin. 

“I want to tell you more about the orb,” he began. His insides fizzed with anxiety. Once he shared this with her, he could never take it back. “I want you to know the whole truth behind it. Not just that it happened, but I want you to know why it happened. Who I was back then.”

He touched his chest, feeling the orb pulse against his fingers like a second heartbeat. “You know I was Mystra’s Chosen. You know what I did and what price I paid for it. But you don’t know why, not really.” 

He looked at her and she was looking at him. Her eyes were intensely curious. She wanted to know this, and he could tell she understood how important this was to him. She said nothing, giving him space to speak. “I understand now that you can feel the orb too. You can feel its hunger for your magic. But you don’t know what it feels like to live with it. To feel that hunger from inside, as if it was a part of you.”

Gale kept his eyes locked on hers, taking courage in the way they showed no fear, only interest. It made him bolder. It made him want to do more than just tell her. “I’d like to show you,” he said. “Truly show you.” He gestured toward his temple. “These parasites … they allow us to communicate beyond words. I can share all of it with you, not just the recitation of memory. I can take you back there through my memory and let you see everything.”

He paused, a measure of uncertainty returning. “I trust you now, enough to offer this. Are you willing to go this deep with me? It may be … unpleasant.” 

With this question, Wren finally responded. Her voice was thoughtful and she considered the request with care. “I’ve lived with the story I was given for so long,” she replied. “I hadn’t considered that there was another part of the story. Your part of the story. 

A flash of guilt flickered through her eyes. “I have grown so used to accepting the information I am given without question and without seeking to know more. It never occurred to me to wonder what I didn’t know. All I needed to know was the circumstance and not the why of it.”

The guilt was transformed into something tender and sincere. "That's changed. Gale, I want to know everything. I want to know who you were then."

Gratitude and relief flooded through Gale at her acknowledgement. Without thinking, he reached out as if to take her hand, then caught himself. He quickly returned his hand to the wood beside him and simply said, “thank you.” 

He paused for a moment, remembering the evidence he’d seen of how she had trained herself to never want more than what she was given. It meant something, that she chose her curiosity now. She chose to know him better, even though it might make following Mystra’s orders more difficult. 

"Who I was then,” he began, “I was ambitious beyond measure, Wren. Brilliant, yes, but also breathtakingly arrogant. I thought myself capable of feats that would reshape the foundations of magic itself." He cringed a bit. "I was also desperately, foolishly in love. And that love drove me to acts of stupidity I'm still paying for."

He closed his eyes, preparing. When he opened them, he took a deep, shaky breath. “Are you ready to feel everything I felt? It won’t be pleasant, but you’ll understand why I did it. You’ll see why a man who had everything still reached for more.”

Gale lifted his hand toward his temple. "Let me show you who Gale of Waterdeep truly was and what he became."

“Show me,” said Wren. As he opened the connection between them, her feelings came through as well. She wasn’t afraid. “Show me all of it,” she urged. “I want to know.”

As she asked, Gale found, to his surprise, that he wasn’t afraid to share this with her anymore. His desire to be known and understood by her was stronger than his fear. “Very well then,” he said. He wished that he could take her hand. He wanted that anchor between them, but they couldn’t have even that small comfort. 

He opened himself to her completely, dropping every single one of his mental barriers. As he did, he brought her in fully so that she could not just see his memory but come inside it with him and relive it with him. 

We enjoyed each other's company, body, mind, and soul, Gale spoke to her mind-to-mind as the connection took hold. Mystra and I. But even so, I desired more. She keeps us in check, you see. There are boundaries she doesn't let even her Chosen cross.

He showed Wren the echo of his younger self. He let her feel the overwhelming rush of standing at the precipice of infinite power and knowledge, then the maddening hunger of being held back from secrets that he could almost see, almost touch. 

Every time I was with her, I stood on that precipice, gazing into wonders that lay beyond. Always I sought to cross her boundaries. His thoughts ached with old pain. I tried to convince her in any way I could. I pouted, I pleaded, I swore my ambition was only to serve her better. But she would just smile and tell me to be content.

As the memory of his relationship with Mystra unfolded, Gale felt Wren's response through their connection before she even formed the thought. Pain lanced through their link. It was sharp, bitter, and complex. It was jealousy, but layered in ways that made him ache with understanding.

There was the agony of watching him receive freely what she had never been offered. To witness Mystra’s love given as a gift rather than earned through endless service and sacrifice. Then, deeper and more cutting, was watching Gale love Mystra so completely in return. Most devastating was witnessing the intimacy he shared with the goddess. The touching, the closeness, and worst of all, the communion of body and soul that was impossible between him and Wren. 

Even this, her thought came through unbidden, raw with layered hurt, even this she takes from me.

The force of her anguish nearly shattered his concentration. He felt all of it. She watched him gaze adoringly upon the goddess who moved Wren about the world like a piece on a lanceboard. She saw him receive Mystra's tender guidance while Wren had known only commands. She witnessed intimacies that she could never share with him, knowing that Mystra could touch him in ways the orb would forever deny her.

He faltered in his sharing. The memory wavered as guilt crashed through him in waves. He had expected her to react to what he did, to the man he was. He hadn’t expected this devastating tangle of pain. He hadn’t thought what it might do to show her the goddess who owned her loving the man she could never have. And worse, him loving her back. Wren... I didn't think.

He felt her force her emotions back under control. Felt her building her walls back up, even as the tears she would never shed burned behind them. What made him continue was her determination. He felt that too. She wouldn’t let her pain stop him from sharing what he needed to share.

As sorry as he was for hurting her that way, he did need to share it. He needed her to understand. He resumed the memory, but with it he sent every kind of caring he could. He sent reassurance, gratitude for her strength, and a desperate wish that he could somehow shield her from this particular anguish. Most of all, he tried to convey that whatever he had shared with Mystra, it was no longer.

The connection deepened, and he showed Wren the restless hunger of a mind that had touched divinity and found mortal limitations unbearable.

As inconceivable as it seems, he continued, I shared a bed with a goddess and yet I wasn't satisfied. So, I sought to prove myself worthy of her deepest secrets.

The scene shifted and they stood in his tower study. Books lined every surface, except a few bare areas of wall where arcane diagrams and notes were pinned. At the center of the room was a desk where that younger Gale sat and pored over ancient texts. The candle beside him had burned down to a stub. He could feel Wren studying this Gale with fascination. 

We come now to the crux of my folly, he thought. In the course of my studies, I learned of a tome. A Netherese book in which a piece of the Weave that Karsus had fractured had been sealed beyond Mystra's reach for over a thousand years.

Through their connection, he let Wren feel the terrible, seductive logic of the idea as it struck him.

What if, his younger self had thought, after all this time, I could return this lost part of herself to the goddess?

He could feel Wren intensely studying the man in his memory. A man with no darkness at the heart of him. No constant hunger. A man who could be touched without fear. A man who chose to try the impossible. A man who believed he could achieve anything through sheer force of his will and intellect. 

You were so sure of yourself, she thought.

Arrogantly so, he responded. It was strange to see himself and simultaneously feel how she saw him. She saw him so clearly. She understood that it wasn’t just cockiness, but the unshakeable conviction born of a lifetime of achievements. He had been told since childhood that he was exceptional. A goddess had chosen him above all others. To believe himself worthy of it, he had to believe he could always do more. 

I'd never failed at anything that truly mattered, he continued. Every spell I'd attempted, every magical theory I'd pursued, every boundary I'd pushed, I'd conquered them all. Why should this be any different?

He hid nothing. He let her feel the intoxicating blend of love and ambition that drove him. He revealed how they’d twisted together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

My gestures could never be grand enough, you see. You can't show up at a goddess's door with flowers and poetry. But this?

The memory shifted to show him locating references to the tome, his eyes lighting up with triumph. A deed of raw power achieved in her name. I was certain it would convince Mystra to take me by the hand and welcome me into her hitherto forbidden domains.

He replayed for her the exact moment when enough pieces fell into place. He let her feel every doubt receding to make way for the excitement brought by the sheer audacity of the plan. 

I was magnificent in my foolishness, he thought. It wasn’t an affectionate thought. It dripped with self-loathing. He sensed Wren’s cringe as she felt that too. 

She offered him one of her own memories, of a lecture from her mentor, Father Devane. He could see the man’s kind eyes and hear the patience in his voice. "There is a difference between intelligence and wisdom, Wren. As clerics, we seek to be wise. We don't seek knowledge for its own sake; instead we seek to understand the effect our choices and actions have upon the world and to measure them accordingly."

Intelligence and wisdom, Gale repeated, his thoughts hollow with recognition. Through their connection, he felt her offering this not as judgment but as understanding. She too had struggled with the difference. She had seen her own consequences from acting without considering the full cost. Your mentor understood what I never grasped until it was far too late, he responded.

In the memory of his tower study, his younger self continued his research with feverish intensity, surrounded by towering piles of books and scrolls. But now, filtered through Devane's words and Wren's understanding, Gale could see what he'd been blind to then. Through their connection, he felt her recognition, too. She understood this tunnel vision, this dangerous certainty.

I measured my worth by what I could learn, what I could achieve, and what boundaries I could cross, he thought, and he knew she could feel the shame radiating from him. But I never stopped to consider the consequences. I never asked myself what the cost might be to myself, or to others.

The scene shifted again, showing him finally obtaining the fabled tome. He hesitated but held nothing back, not even the methods by which he obtained the tome. His younger self had been so consumed with this obsession that he'd justified anything necessary to achieve it.

I told myself it was all for love, for service to the goddess. But Father Devane would have seen through that lie immediately. It was pride, Wren. Pure, destructive pride. I wanted to be her equal, not her subordinate.

He could feel her protective instincts stirring. He might have expected pity, but what came through instead was a fierce desire to shield him from his own self-hatred. Even seeing his greatest moral failing, she wanted to defend him from the worst of his own judgment. 

He steeled himself for what came next. Are you ready to see what intelligence without wisdom wrought?

Back through the bond came something he wasn't expecting: forgiveness, warm and absolute. You made a mistake, she sent, but you did it with good intentions.

She sent him another memory. More words from Father Devane, on the day she received her mission: Wren. The wizard is not evil. By all accounts, he is a good man who made a terrible mistake.

Then her voice again: You did do it for love, even if you also had other reasons. I, of all people, understand what it is to look upon a goddess and want more than she will give. They don't realize, those beings who observe us from their lofty domains, what their attention does to us.

As she sent it, he felt the depth of her understanding. She knew the particular madness that came from being close enough to touch the infinite but forever held back from grasping it.

It was your choice, she continued, and the consequences are yours to bear, but I understand it. How could you catch a glimpse of all that lay beyond your reach and not want to touch it? It took me decades of correction before I stopped trying to touch what lay beyond my reach. I was only fortunate my family didn’t take me when I reached for freedom.

Then she sent him something that nearly broke him. He felt her wrapping herself around him, as he had done for her in the goblin camp. She made herself a barrier to protect him from what came next, the vision of his darkest hour. She prepared herself to take the brunt of it for him now, since she had not been there to do it then. Show me the rest, she sent. 

He had braced himself for judgement. He had been prepared to feel her horror when she saw him as the monster he believed himself to be. Instead, she made herself into a shield for him. She would protect him even from himself. 

Wren... His thoughts scattered in the face of what she offered. You...

There weren’t words for all that he felt, so he just let her feel it instead. In return, he could feel that she was determined to see this through with him. She would protect him in memory just as she had protected him so many times since they’d met. The wonder of it left him breathless. 

Taking strength from what she offered him, he kept going. The scene shifted back to his study, but the atmosphere had changed. His younger self was back at his desk with the ancient Netherese tome before him. He radiated anticipation and the air buzzed with the power of the book. 

Gale's tadpole quivered as he opened his memory even further, so she saw it not from outside but from his perspective. Through their connection, Wren stared down the corridors of that dread memory through his eyes. The book lay before them, bound in materials that seemed to drink in the candlelight. His hands reached out with confidence and anticipation and the book opened.

Inside, there were no pages. There was only a swirling mass of the blackest Weave that pounced the moment it was freed.

When the darkness struck, he let Wren feel that hunger just as he had experienced it. That bottomless, gnawing need that had been his constant companion ever since. Its teeth, its claws, were unstoppable as it dug through them and became part of them. Through their connection, he felt her recognition: she had been living with the echo of this hunger every day since she pulled him from the sigil stone but now she was feeling what it was to have that hunger inside you. 

Her magic reacted to the sensation of it. Lightning wreathed her body and even though she was fully immersed in the vision, she leaped away from him. She stumbled on the uneven ground, her vision still locked in the memory, then caught herself against a tree.

Gale dropped the connection and his eyes flew open. The orb pulsed erratically as it reacted to the emergence of her power. He started to reach for her, desperate to comfort her, before stopping himself. Energy still danced bright against her skin, and the orb yearned for it, stirred up by reliving the moment of its birth. 

“I’m sorry!” Wren apologized frantically, eyes wide with horror. Their connection wasn’t fully closed and he could feel the fear that she might have hurt him mixed with the shock of what she’d experienced. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “Did I hurt you? Even knowing what would happen, I wasn’t prepared for …”

"I’m okay," he assured her, his own voice raw with worry. “I’m not hurt. Are you all right?” He stayed where he was, giving her space. He could feel her struggling to process what she had seen.

She pressed a hand to her chest, and he could feel the echo of that terrible need still in her. "Gods, Gale, how did you survive this?"

He wasn’t prepared for how it would feel for someone to recognize his suffering. He was prepared for fear of what he was, rejection of having something so dangerous around. But empathy for what he endured almost brought him to his knees. It wasn’t just the question. He could feel her horrified understanding of his daily struggle to maintain control. It was the first time anyone had truly understood the weight he carried and how much it cost him.

“Survive?” He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “I’m not certain I did. Not really. What you felt, it’s with me all the time, Wren. Every single day since it happened. It’s always eating at me, always demanding to be fed. It takes everything I have to keep it contained. I can’t let my guard down for even an instant. That’s why we …”  He didn’t want to finish the thought, and he didn’t have to. She knew. “It doesn’t feel like life anymore, just existence.” 

He clenched his fists, as the orb pulsed harder, stirred up by the intensity of his emotions. "The worst part isn't even the pain,” he continued. “It's the knowledge that I did this to myself. That my own arrogance turned me into a walking catastrophe."

As soon as he said it, he felt her reject his self-condemnation and even as low as he felt, it made him smile. “How do I survive it?” He looked at her with eyes full of gratitude. “With the help of the few people who can somehow see past the monster I’ve made of myself.” 

Wren stood where she was for a bit, thinking over everything she’d seen and all he had said, then came to some internal decision. She walked back over to the fallen tree and came to rest right in front of Gale. 

She reached out and her hand hovered just over his chest. He could feel her wish that she could touch him and offer him that form of comfort. She stood like that for just a little while, then let her hand drop to her side. Her frustration and his echoed together between them..

"We are not so different, you and I," she said.  "You ruined yourself trying to convince Mystra you could be her equal, I ruined myself to become what Mystra wanted me to be."

Her eyes were burning with conviction, and the air around her still snapped with energy. He felt her certainty like a beacon he would follow anywhere. "We will free you from this burden,” she promised. “We will find a way. If we can get these tadpoles out of our heads, we can get this out of you too. I don't know how, but we will try."

Gale stared at her. He could feel the absolute certainty behind her words. Her promise felt like a prophecy and it rendered him speechless. This fierce woman had witnessed his greatest failure and was now promising him the world. She was offering to fight for his freedom when he had all but given up hope. In return, he felt he would do anything for her. He would move mountains if they stood in her way. He would challenge the gods themselves for her.

“Wren,” he confessed. “I want to help free you too. At night, when I lie awake fighting with the orb, I think about it. There has to be a way to protect you from your family and give you back the freedom that was stolen from you.”

He leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers. "I want to try too. I want to find a way to keep you safe from those who would use you, so you can finally choose your own path."

She stared at him with disbelief written across her whole face. "You have been thinking of this?".

"Every night," he said quietly, letting her feel through their connection the truth of it. "When the orb keeps me awake and my mind refuses to quiet, I think about you. This is one of the things I think about."

His voice grew more animated as he spoke, excitement building as he shared his thoughts. "Your family holds the means to bind you, yes, but we could find ways to protect you from that. Wards, enchantments. If I could restore my power to what it was before the orb, I could protect you myself. You wouldn’t need Mystra anymore"

He stopped, realizing he was getting carried away.  "I know it seems impossible. Believe me, I know. But you deserve it. You deserve to choose."

Like a woman in a trance, she sat next to him and he could feel walls crumbling inside her. She sat so close that he could feel her trembling a little. 

"No one, not even Father Devane, has ever let me believe there is a possibility I could be free,” she confessed. “Certainly no one offered to help me try. I was the only one who ever imagined it. And only until they convinced me it was impossible."

Underneath the words, Gale felt the depth of her isolation and the effect of years of being told her dreams of freedom were selfish fantasies. Her breath hitched and he felt the pressure of tears she would never allow to fall.

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Instead, rain began to fall over the clearing, gentle and warm, like the first showers of spring. They jumped up, pulling their hoods over their heads and squeezed under a nearby overhang in the rock. Wren didn’t look at Gale, she just stared out into the rain. “Sorry about that,” she said. 

Understanding dawned slowly. Gale noticed then how the rain seemed to come from nowhere, with no clouds overhead. He saw how it fell in a perfect circle around their clearing. Then, through the connection that they had left open,  he felt her embarrassment at losing control. 

"Don't apologize," he said softly. " The rain … it's you, isn't it?"

He had seen before how she channeled the emotions she wasn’t allowed to feel into her magic. Her eyes were dry, her face as calm as ever, but the rain wept for her when she would not weep for herself.

She turned her face to his. The rain continued to fall around them, gentle and steady. "You understand me too well," she said.

Gale’s hand lifted, then stopped, hovering just before her face. He felt her longing mirror his own. His heart ached with the need to comfort her.  "Gods, how I wish I could hold you right now," he confessed. She said nothing, bet he felt her sharp intake of breath at his admission. 

His hand slowly lowered back to his side, but his eyes never left her face. "I would hold you through the storms you make, and the ones that rage inside you. I would let you rest against me and know that for once, someone else is there to carry it with you."

The rain continued to fall, and in its gentle rhythm was everything neither of them could say aloud. "You are," she said "Not with your arms, but with your words. I can feel it, even if you can't." Her face was feverish with wanting. "We have already promised each other the impossible. To hold each other is just one more thing. We will have it too, someday. We'll have all the impossible things."

Gale felt hope kindle in his chest like an impossibly bright and dangerous flame. In their little shelter, the world narrowed to just the two of them and the space between them that they couldn’t cross. Not yet. 

In the perfect bubble of that moment, he believed it. She would fight for him when he had given up hope and he would promise her impossible things and make her believe in them. They would fight for each other and someday they would win.

Outside their shelter, the rain began to let up, responding to the peace settling over them. "All the impossible things," he repeated, testing the words and tasting their promise. He felt the smile that barely reached her face. "Yes. We'll have them all."