William rose to his full height, stretching until his joints cracked audibly, the release drawing a quiet exhale from his lips as tension bled from his frame.
For a fleeting moment, he felt almost human again.
Unaware of the lingering scent clinging to him like a second skin, he failed to notice the reaction it provoked until a passing druid recoiled, gagging openly at the odor.
"Bath time, I guess," William muttered, rubbing the back of his neck before giving Owlbert an affectionate pat atop the head.
The owlbear stirred from slumber with a low, contented hoot, blinking one heavy eye before lumbering upright and padding after him without complaint.
Together, they passed the ritual circle where the Rite of Thorns neared its grim crescendo. What had once been delicate brambles had swollen into massive, twisting growths, thorned roots spiraling outward like the grasping fingers of some ancient, patient god.
The grove itself seemed to hold its breath.
"I need to stop this," William murmured as he circled the elevated pedestal. "But where does my loyalty lie… with the grove, or with Minthara?"
At the center rested the idol of Sylvanus. Small, weathered, and unmistakably powerful, it pulsed with a slow, rhythmic hum of magic, as if harboring a heartbeat of its own.
As he completed another circuit, his gaze snagged on an oddity.
A figure dressed in baffling, colorful attire stood nearby, gesturing animatedly while attempting to converse with a bear. Whether the man believed it to be a druid in Wild Shape or was simply oblivious to reality remained unclear.
William decided not to intervene.
Descending along a sloping root system that formed a natural staircase toward the river below, he found clusters of Tieflings and druids washing away the grime of the previous day in the frigid water.
Among them stood Shadowheart.
Her dark hair spilled through her fingers as she rinsed it in the current, the shadows clinging to her as though they belonged there.
When William drew closer, her head snapped up.
Her eyes locked onto his, deep and dark, swallowing the morning light with a gaze that mixed disdain with something far more dangerous: appraisal.
She turned away without a word.
William froze, the moment stretching thin as an unseen force tugged at him, as if she were a singularity and he had been caught in her gravity.
"Hello," he said finally, lifting a hand in greeting. "I'm William."
SLAP.
The sharp sting came as she struck his hand aside without so much as a glance.
He stared down at his reddening palm, blinking once.
Did I do something to piss her off?
Deciding not to force the issue, William stepped back.
If things unfolded anything like the stories he remembered, their paths would cross again.
No need to provoke fate early.
He moved to a quieter stretch of riverbank, undressed, and waded into the icy water. The cold bit immediately, stealing his breath and sharpening his senses.
Nearby, Gale was finishing his own washing. Casting a glance toward Shadowheart's retreating form, he spoke with casual reassurance.
"Don't take it personally. Sharran worshippers are usually far worse. Honestly, she's quite friendly by comparison."
As he spoke, Gale's expression grew distant, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.
"When I was an apprentice under Elminster," he continued, "the old wizard once showed me a vision of the War of Light and Shadows.
A glimpse, really, but enough to leave its mark."
With a flick of his fingers, Gale conjured an illusion.
Silver-clad armies clashed against forces shrouded in black, divine power tearing the sky asunder. The image shimmered violently before fading.
William watched, eyes gleaming with quiet awe.
A ripple broke the river's surface just moments before footsteps signaled someone's approach.
William sensed it before he saw him, a prickling at the back of his neck, like the ghost of cold fingers over a half-healed scar.
Astarion stepped from between the trees with effortless grace, his leather armor loosened, silver clasps catching the pale morning light.
He looked every inch the high elf noble, flawless despite the dirt of the road, his pale skin untouched by exhaustion in a way that felt almost mocking.
He stopped at the water's edge, gaze drifting across the scene with casual disinterest.
Then his eyes landed on William.
For a breath, the world seemed to contract.
Crimson eyes sharpened, the easy poise slipping away as something ancient and far less refined rose behind them.
His pupils widened, lips parting slightly, as if tasting the air.
William felt it then, a faint, inescapable awareness brushing against him.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Just the undeniable understanding of being regarded as something other than a person.
As prey.
The moment hung in the air, stretched thin like a wire pulled to its limit.
Astarion's jaw tightened, and with visible effort, he pulled his gaze away, fingers curling briefly at his side before loosening again.
Whatever impulse had flared was forced back behind a mask of practiced composure, tucked neatly beneath charm and restraint, like slipping a blade back into its sheath.
"Gods," he muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders as though to shake off a chill. "Can't even bathe in peace without temptation hovering nearby."
He stepped into the river with deliberate ease, every movement smooth and measured, lowering himself into the cold water as if nothing unusual had just passed between them.
The predator was gone, replaced by a man humming quietly while rinsing blood and dust from his hands.
William found himself watching longer than he intended, unsettled by how swiftly that hunger had been buried, not erased, but controlled.
Astarion caught the look, offering a faint, knowing smile that didn't quite touch his eyes.
"Relax," he said lightly. "If I meant to cause trouble, you'd already know."
Then he turned back to his washing, crimson eyes catching the river's shimmer as though nothing at all had just happened.
Cold water cascaded over William's flat yet well-toned abdomen, sending a shiver rippling through him as the fine hairs on his arms and legs bristled. The chill lingered only for a moment before a gentle warmth seeped back into his skin.
SPLASH!
Owlbert flapped joyfully in the water, scattering droplets in every direction, provoking a blend of amused laughter and mild irritation from those caught in the icy spray.
William lingered only long enough to wash away the lingering chill of the river from his skin before stepping onto the bank. He dressed swiftly, the familiar weight of his garments settling around him like armor, and with a final glance toward the water, he turned and made his way back toward camp.
The grove met him with its characteristic blend of contrasts. Soft murmurs of conversation drifted between the tents, the wounded were tended with measured care, and the steady, unsettling creak of the Rite of Thorns hung in the air like an unfinished sentence no one dared resolve.
He had taken scarcely a dozen steps when a sense of wrongness settled over him.
The ground ahead grew uneven, where roots twisted upward and shattered stone jutted from the earth, marking the place where the grove thinned and the forest pressed closer. At the edge of that rough terrain stood a small cluster of Tiefling children.
They were not playing.
They were not whispering secrets or laughing too loudly in feigned bravery as children sometimes did.
They were staring into the forest.
As William drew nearer, one child broke from the group and sprinted toward him, boots kicking up loose soil in hurried strides. The boy skidded to a halt just short of colliding with him, chest rising and falling rapidly.
He could not have been more than ten years old. Two horns swept sharply back from his temples, and a strip of dark cloth covered one eye, knotted tightly at the back of his head. The visible eye burned with a keen, calculating focus that seemed far older than his years.
"You!" the boy barked, then caught himself and spoke again, his voice edged with urgency. "You're the one who fought on the wall, right? With the owlbear?"
William inclined his head slightly. "I was there."
The boy swallowed hard, casting a wary glance at the others before stepping forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper as if the surrounding trees might overhear.
He gestured sharply toward the fractured ground and dense, tangled undergrowth ahead.
"My friend went this way," he said. "Mirkon. He thought there might be things worth selling, shiny things, old things."
His jaw tightened. "That was almost an hour ago." Behind him, the other children shifted with unease, their tails flicking, eyes darting between William and the shadowed forest, the air thick with a fog of fear.
The boy straightened, attempting, and failing, to project a maturity he did not yet possess.
"Name's Mol," he announced. "And I need you to find him."
The emphasis was deliberate; it was not a want, but a necessity.
His voice cracked despite his effort to keep it steady.
"He wouldn't just vanish," Mol pressed on, fists clenched tight at his sides. "He's small, yes, but clever. If something's happened to him…"
His words faded, and he looked up at William, the single visible eye glistening with a desperation that teetered on the edge of breaking.
"Please."
William did not respond immediately.
His gaze followed Mol's indication, tracing the perilous ascent of stone and root, where the forest grew dense enough to choke the light before it reached the ground.
A familiar constriction gripped his chest, the quiet summons of danger intertwined with the weight of responsibility.
It was the pull of a decision already made.
He turned his eyes back to Mol, his features hardening as determination settled upon him like a sword sliding into its scabbard.
"I'll find him," he declared, his tone steady and resolute. "And I'll bring him back."
Mol released a sharp breath, relief flooding his expression so swiftly it seemed to weaken his stance.
With a single, fierce nod of gratitude, he stepped aside to open the way.
William faced the forest, tightening his hold on his weapon as Owlbert moved to his side, feathers shifting in response to the change in atmosphere.
Whatever lay beyond those gnarled roots had taken a child, and William was resolved that it would not keep him.
William did not pause at the treeline.
The weight of Mol's plea pressed deep in his chest as he strode back into the grove, eyes sharp and searching. It took only moments to spot Wyll.
The Blade of Frontiers stood in a sun-dappled clearing along the inner paths, encircled by a loose gathering of civilians.
A worn practice sword danced in his hands as he demonstrated a steady guard, adjusting grips with measured taps and calm instruction.
Nearby, his own weapon lay within reach, its edge notched and stained from yesterday's battle, yet his stance remained resolute.
"No wild swings," Wyll instructed, guiding a trembling young Tiefling's arms into place.
"Keep your balance, keep your life. Again."
William stepped forward. "Wyll."
The warlock turned instantly, the urgency in William's tone needing no explanation.
In quick, clipped words, William relayed the situation, rough ground beyond the grove, a child missing far too long.
Wyll's eyes flared with fierce purpose, and he moved without hesitation, snatching up his blade.
"A child in danger doesn't wait," he declared, offering the civilians a final nod. "Stay sharp. Stay alive."
Then he was running, boots pounding the packed earth toward the grove's edge, William close behind, Owlbert bounding alongside, feathers bristling with alert energy.
The trees thickened, shadows deepening, roots twisting up like skeletal hands, and someone was already there.
Shadowheart leaned against a weathered stone pillar, her mace balanced casually across one shoulder.
She appeared to have been waiting, her stance relaxed yet brimming with latent tension, eyes sharp beneath the dark curtain of her hair.
As William and Wyll drew near, she straightened, stepping deliberately into their path, her gaze shifting between them with unguarded suspicion.
Moments stretched in silence as the forest murmured around them.
Then, with her jaw set and her voice edged like shattered glass, she broke the stillness.
"My goddess Shar has given me a revelation." Wyll's brow furrowed, while William remained silent. "I have been shown that I am to aid you," she continued, her fingers tightening on the mace's haft, "as you, in turn, aid me."
The words hung in the air.
William and Wyll exchanged a glance, confusion meeting confusion, calculation matching instinct, before both exhaled, an unspoken accord forming.
Together, they faced her once more. William stepped forward, his tone firm and unwavering.
"We will accept you," he stated evenly. "We need a healer." His gaze locked with hers, hard and unflinching. "But make no mistake, Sharran, we will be watching you."
Shadowheart's lips thinned, and for a heartbeat it seemed she might protest. Instead, she shifted her grip on the mace and inclined her head ever so slightly.
"Fair," she said.
Ahead, the path wound on through twisted roots and shattered stone, where somewhere beyond, a child in peril awaited rescue.
The question remained; would they arrive in time?