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They rolled into the Lower City in a brightly painted wagon that announced MYSTERY INC. in peeling gold letters on the side.
Wyll insisted on driving.
Karlach rode shotgun, hanging halfway out the side and whooping every time they hit a pothole. Gale sat in the back surrounded by maps, notebooks, and a lantern enchanted to glow just enough. Shadowheart, immaculate and unimpressed, leaned against the door with her arms crossed. Lae’zel sat rigidly near the back, arms crossed, glaring at the city as if daring it to try something. Astarion lounged across the bench like the world’s most disgruntled noble, one boot braced against a crate labeled DO NOT OPEN (CURSED).
They were, unfortunately, a mystery-solving group now.
Astarion groaned from the back bench. “Why do I associate with any of you.”
“Because you get scared easily,” Shadowheart said sweetly, adjusting her purple scarf while checking her reflection in a cracked mirror.
“I do not,” Astarion snapped. “I am selectively cautious.”
“According to eyewitness accounts,” Gale said, pushing his glasses up his nose, “the apparition manifests at midnight, drifts through walls, and leaves behind traces of blood that vanish when touched.”
Karlach grinned. “Sooo haunted.”
“Or staged,” Shadowheart said.
“Oh, please let it be staged,” Astarion said fervently. “Real ghosts are so gauche.”
They called it the Murder House, which Astarion felt was terribly unoriginal.
The wagon slowed to a stop at the front gate. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a pale figure appeared in one of the upper windows. She stood unnaturally still, white hair catching the moonlight, eyes fixed on the group below like she hadn’t quite decided what to do with them yet.
Astarion felt something tighten behind his ribs.
The figure shifted—and passed straight through the window frame, vanishing into the wall as if it hadn’t been there at all.
“That’s her,” Gale whispered, adjusting his glasses. “The so-called Ghost of the Lower City.”
Karlach cracked her knuckles. “Sick. Love a theme.”
Shadowheart frowned. “She didn’t feel hostile.”
“She looked at me,” Astarion said lightly, though the tightness in his chest hadn’t gone away. “Which is rude, frankly.”
Wyll hopped down from the wagon first, striking a heroic pose. Karlach hopped down next, stretching and grinning. Gale followed more carefully, lantern in hand, already peering toward the house. Shadowheart stepped down with measured grace, eyes never leaving the darkened windows. Lae’zel vaulted from the back, sword already resting on her shoulder. Astarion dismounted last, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves and casting one more glance up at the house.
“Alright, everyone,” Wyll said. “Let’s split up and—”
“No,” Shadowheart and Astarion said simultaneously.
They didn’t split up. Not yet.
They approached the Murder House together. Up close, it was worse. The iron gate sagged on its hinges. The stonework bore old stains that looked far too much like dried blood. One shutter banged softly in the breeze, as though the house were breathing.
Karlach whistled. “Oh yeah. This place commits.”
Wyll reached for the door, pausing only long enough to square his shoulders. “Everyone ready?”
“No,” Astarion said.
Wyll opened it anyway.
Inside, the Murder House was doing far too much.
Thunder cracked overhead as the front door slammed shut behind them with theatrical enthusiasm. Dust spiraled through the entry hall like it had been waiting for an audience.
Gale crouched immediately, examining faint sigils etched into the floor. “Interesting. These aren’t summoning runes. They’re—oh. Astarion, don’t touch that.”
Astarion was already touching it.
“I’m bored,” he said airily, lifting a velvet curtain. “And I have a terrible feeling the ghost is prettier than the rest of this place.”
Suddenly, the temperature dropped. The lights flickered.
She appeared at the top of the staircase—pale, white-haired, drifting like a half-remembered nightmare.
“Zoinks—!” Astarion blurted, then stiffened. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Karlach shrieked. “GHOST!”
“Fascinating!” Gale breathed.
Shadowheart grabbed Wyll’s arm. “Wyll. Wyll. Wyll.”
Wyll straightened his ascot. “Everyone stay calm.”
Lae’zel charged. “I WILL PUNCH THE SPECTER.”
She drifted closer, passing straight through the wall, her expression tight with something that looked suspiciously like fear.
Lae’zel’s fist met empty air.
“Hello, darling,” Astarion said softly. “You’re making quite the impression.”
Her gaze flicked to him—sharp, assessing. Then she vanished.
There was a long beat of silence.
Wyll clapped his hands together, resolute. “Alright. Now we split up.”
“No,” Shadowheart said immediately.
“Yes,” Gale said at the same time.
Gale cleared his throat. “Statistically, splitting up increases the likelihood of—”
They split up. Naturally.
Wyll took Shadowheart upstairs to “check the bedrooms.” Gale stayed in the foyer, muttering about pressure plates and hidden doors. Lae’zel stalked off toward the east wing, sword-first. Karlach and Astarion ended up in the west hallway—long, narrow, humming faintly with magic.
“Fangs,” Karlach said cheerfully. “You’re shaking.”
“I am not,” Astarion hissed. “The floor is vibrating. Obviously.”
A door creaked open ahead of them. Cold air rushed through the hall. The ghost burst from the wall with a howl.
Astarion screamed and launched himself bodily into Karlach’s arms.
She caught him without missing a step. “WOW. You’re light!”
“DO NOT DROP ME,” he snapped, clinging like a distressed cat. “If I die, I will haunt you specifically.”
“RUNNING NOW,” Karlach yelled, already turning on her heel.
They tore through the house in a chase that involved far too many doors for a building of its size—stairs, corridors, and looping hallways blurring together in a disorienting whirl. Somehow, Astarion stayed in her arms the entire time.
They skidded into the kitchen, nearly colliding with the others as the ghost vanished once more.
“Okay,” Karlach said, pointing wildly. “Ghost confirmed. Ten outta ten spook factor.”
“Not undead,” Gale said immediately. “Or not fully. There’s no necromantic residue.”
“Which means,” Shadowheart said, eyes narrowing, “someone is behind this.”
Wyll folded his arms, thoughtful. “Or someone is trying very hard to scare us away.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Astarion leaned against the counter, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the doorway where the ghost had vanished. He hadn’t made a joke. He hadn’t complained. He hadn’t even mocked Gale for saying “necromantic residue.”
Shadowheart broke the quiet. “She’s appeared three times now. And every time, she vanishes before things escalate.”
Karlach nodded. “Yeah. If I was haunting a place, I’d at least throw a chair.”
Astarion didn’t move. His eyes stayed on the doorway.
Shadowheart followed his line of sight. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“Because if I wanted any of you dead,” Astarion said mildly, “you wouldn’t be standing here having a meeting about it.”
Gale blinked. “That’s…unsettlingly persuasive.”
Wyll straightened. “So we’re agreed. The ghost is frightening us, not attacking us.”
Astarion pushed off the counter. “Which means,” he said, “she might actually talk.” His smile was thin, determined. “I’ll go and talk to her.”
Gale’s eyes widened. “Alone?”
“Obviously.”
Wyll had already slipped a sending stone back into his pocket, jaw set. “If this is staged,” he said quietly, “I asked the Flaming Fists to be nearby.”
Astarion found her in the chapel.
Moonlight spilled through broken stained glass. Here, she didn’t flicker. She stood solid, rigid, braced.
“You’re not a ghost,” he said gently.
She swallowed. “I am pretending to be one.”
“Hiding,” he corrected softly.
She nodded. “He is looking for me.”
“Let me guess,” Astarion said. “Dramatic voice. Loves theatrics. Thinks fear is affection.”
Her mouth twitched. “He thinks it is love.”
Before he could respond, the chapel doors slammed shut.
The walls bled.
Dark rivulets traced the stone, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. Candles flared crimson, shadows stretching and warping along the ceiling. A booming voice shook the very foundation of the house.
COME HOME, DAUGHTER.
Astarion winced. “Ah. There he is.”
He shifted without thinking, stepping half a pace forward—enough to put himself between her and the sound of that voice.
Karlach burst in first. “HEY! BACK OFF, SPOOKY DAD VOICE.”
The others followed moments later, weapons half-raised, eyes darting.
Bhaal stepped from the shadows, robes swirling, mask gleaming—a god playing monster in a haunted house, trying to frighten his daughter into obedience.
“You do not understand,” Bhaal intoned, his voice echoing unnaturally through the chapel. “I created her. I shaped her. Every fear, every instinct, every drop of blood in her veins answers to me.” He spread his hands, almost indulgent. “I am only reclaiming what is mine.”
“No,” she said, shaking but unbroken. “I am not yours.”
“JINKIES,” Gale said, delighted. “Divine resonance amplified through illusion magic!”
Shadowheart crossed her arms. “So the ghost is fake.”
“And the haunting is staged,” Wyll added.
Bhaal stepped forward, mask gleaming. “She belongs to me.”
Karlach snarled. “FANGS, I DON’T LIKE HIM.”
Lae’zel cracked her knuckles. “LET ME AT HIM.”
Gale adjusted his glasses. “Aha! You used secret passages, illusion magic, and fear to isolate her. Which means—”
Astarion smirked, not taking his eyes off Bhaal. “He’s not a ghost.”
Wyll pointed dramatically. “He’s just a villain in a costume.”
They tackled him mid-rant.
As the Flaming Fists hauled him upright and tore the mask away, Bhaal snarled, divine fury bleeding into something far more small and human. “I would have succeeded,” he spat, struggling against their grip, “if it weren’t for your meddling adventurers—and him.”
His glare snapped to Astarion, venomous. “She would have come home.”
Astarion smiled pleasantly. “Do haunt somewhere else.”
They gathered near the wagon as the city woke.
She lingered at the edge of the street, hands folded like she wasn’t quite sure where she was allowed to stand.
Astarion approached her cautiously. “You’re free,” he said.
She nodded. “I keep expecting him to come back.”
“Freedom does that,” he replied. “Takes time to feel real.”
A shout echoed somewhere distant down the street. She stiffened.
Without thinking, Astarion shifted—just a fraction—angling himself between her and the sound. When nothing followed, he seemed to realize what he’d done and stilled.
She noticed anyway.
After a moment, she stepped closer—not behind him, but beside him. They stood that way for a breath, sharing the same space.
“For helping me,” she said quietly. “For seeing me.” She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek—brief, deliberate, chosen.
He went very still. “Well,” he managed faintly, “that was…unexpected.”
After a beat, he reached for her hand, slow enough to give her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. He pressed a careful kiss to her knuckles—cool, restrained, reverent.
“Try not to vanish entirely,” he said softly.
“Some ghosts come back,” she replied.
He hesitated, just a moment. “I never asked your name,” he said.
She looked at him, then said, "Ruyn."
He smiled. “Astarion.” As if it mattered that she knew it.
But she smiled back.
He couldn't seem to stop smiling as he walked away. He didn’t look back—because if he did, he might not leave at all.
“SO,” Karlach said loudly from the wagon as Astarion climbed inside, “ARE WE ALL JUST PRETENDING THAT DIDN’T GET ROMANTIC?”
Astarion didn’t turn around. “Drive,” he said faintly.
Gale peered back at the house, thoughtful. “Fascinating. Statistically, haunted houses have a thirty-seven percent higher likelihood of recurring emotional entanglements.”
“I hate this group,” Astarion muttered.
Lae’zel squinted after the house. “I LIKE THE GHOST.”
Karlach whooped. “SAME.”
The wagon rattled off down the street, MYSTERY INC. disappearing into the morning.