The firebolt struck with the ferocity of a hammer, radiating a scorching heat.
The druid's shoulder snapped backward under the impact, flame exploding across his robes as the spell tore through cloth and flesh alike.
Whatever spell or incantation he had been attempting to cast seemed to crumble apart entirely the moment his concentration completely vanished.
The magic that had been present vanished in a flash, transforming into a shower of sparks as the spell abruptly fizzled out.
He staggered backward, his breathing coming in ragged, short gasps, as his hands instinctively shot up in front of him, desperately trying to ward off the encroaching flames that were licking at his arms and sleeves, hungry and insatiable.
The air was filled with a pungent, acrid smell that was both sharp and unpleasant, the aroma of burning fabric and the mingled scent of human flesh.
For a brief, agonizing moment, all he could manage was to keep pounding against the raging flames, his teeth bared in a silent, snarling expression as pain completely overshadowed every thought.
The fire died.
It wasn't a gradual and gentle fading away, but rather a swift and abrupt ending that seemed to occur almost instantly, solely as a result of the sheer strength of his will.
With a measured, controlled movement, the druid slowly lowered his hands.
As his eyes finally met William's, there wasn't a single sign of anger or any other negative emotion in his expression.
No fear either.
It was a look that conveyed a chilling sense of coldness and deliberate calculation, the expression of a man who had already made up his mind regarding the amount of suffering he deemed another life to be worth.
Magic surged.
A noticeable darkness began to spread directly beneath his feet, and a surge of powerful energy seemed to be actively rising up from within the grove itself.
This surge of energy seemed to respond to his call with a malicious glee, a sense of dark satisfaction.
A deep, wide crack opened up in the earth, and from it, three thick, sturdy vines began to push their way out.
These vines were covered in deep crimson thorns, their surfaces radiating a sharp, thorny texture.
The thorns were incredibly sharp and pointed, their edges catching the light and reflecting back with a metallic glint.
This contrast was even more striking when seen against the dry earth, creating a rather unnerving sensation.
They struck.
William made a desperate move, his body twisting sideways with all his might, hoping to escape the impending ground that was closing in on him like a hungry beast.
However, it was too late, and he was inevitably struck by it.
It was as if the vines themselves writhed and contorted in the air, their movements radiating a palpable sense of intensity.
They then wrapped themselves around him in a seemingly sudden and violent embrace.
Pain detonated.
These thorns managed to penetrate through the fabric with incredible force, digging themselves deep enough that they reached the skin and even pierced right through the muscle layer underneath.
They did not stab once.
With practiced hands and a surprising amount of strength, they expertly hooked, twisted, and pulled their way deeper and deeper into him, their movements precise and purposeful.
The vines around him tightening around him, feeling like a constricting embrace, were a constant reminder of the danger they posed, each coil like a deadly serpent's deadly embrace.
Every movement only dragged the barbs deeper, ripping fresh paths through his flesh.
William screamed.
With a raw, unrestrained, and almost primal roar, the sound ripped free from him, a sound that seemed to erupt from some deep, primal part of his very being.
The agony washed over him in a powerful wave, momentarily knocking him off balance with its sheer intensity.
His body arched violently as blood welled along the vines, the grove itself seeming to recoil as his cry echoed across stone and bark.
"AAAAAAAH!"
The vines tightened in response.
The thorns seemed to bite with a ferocity he'd never felt before, as if the very earth beneath him was fighting back, punishing him for the audacity of standing in that very spot.
That scream carried.
Kagha was informed of the news just as Halsin's massive claw was hanging directly above her head, suspended in the air just waiting for the opportune moment to strike with deadly ferocity.
The Archdruid's blow, a mighty swing of his arm, was brought to an abrupt halt right in the midst of its motion.
You could almost feel the air vibrate and tremble under the sheer force of the blow he unleashed.
Halsin turned.
William felt a shiver run down his spine as his gaze met his opponent's.
The eyes, which were quite large and an intense dark shade, were fixed firmly on him, yet there was absolutely no hint of anger or aggression visible within those depths.
No mercy.
Only an ancient, immeasurable awareness.
William felt it immediately.
A palpable, almost tangible sense of immense pressure descended upon him, feeling thick and profoundly heavy as if he were standing beneath a vast, ancient canopy of trees, and suddenly realizing that not only was he aware of his presence, but the entire forest seemed to have become cognizant of his very existence.
It's not about being hunted or viewed as an adversary, but rather simply being something that is being assessed, considered, or weighed against something else.
Judged.
William's bones creaked.
It wasn't the sharp, sudden crack of a broken bone, not yet, but rather a slow, agonizing groan that sounded like the timber of something bending under a weight that was simply not meant to be there.
The pressure began to gnaw at him from every direction, intensifying as the thorny vines tightened their grip around him.
Their barbs sank deeper and deeper, searching for any opportunity to get a better hold, any sign of weakness from which they could extract their full force.
His vision blurred at the edges.
For the first time since arriving in Faerûn, the feeling settled in.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Doom.
The grove grew larger with each step he took, and the ground beneath his feet rose up to meet him, as if eager to absorb the remaining moisture.
His ribs were screaming in protest.
A sharp, sudden movement caused something in his shoulder to slip out, accompanied by a wet, internal shift that made his breath catch and burn.
Then.
Thunk.
The sound cut cleanly through the chaos.
The druid convulsed.
Suddenly, the pressure that had been mounting felt as if it had vanished entirely, and the vines immediately responded by relaxing their tension, their grip loosened as their master's intense focus suddenly dissolved.
William collapsed to the ground in a heap of torn cloth and blood, the thorns ripping free in protest as they withdrew back into the earth.
A breath later, the druid staggered, staring down at the arrow buried deep in his chest.
He looked up.
High above the grove wall, perched on the stone, stood a Githyanki, her green skin contrasting sharply against the stone.
Her posture was calm and incredibly straight, conveying a sense of unwavering confidence.
The longbow felt comfortable and secure in her hands, while another arrow was already nocked and held taut.
Its fletching grazed her cheek gently as she focused her gaze upon the target.
Her expression was flat.
Judgment without ceremony.
She did not wait to see him fall.
Her gaze drifted past him, her bow seeming almost to follow something else entirely.
It was as if he were no longer even there, as if she had already moved on from him.
The druid gasped, his eyes widening with surprise and a mixture of pain, as he desperately clawed at the wooden shaft that had been driven deep into his chest.
Blood bubbled around his fingers as he desperately attempted to wrench it free from his grasp, his desperation pushing aside any sense of caution or hesitation.
A shadow fell over him.
He froze.
Slowly, trembling, he turned his head.
Steel flashed.
The axe descended with a single, swift, and brutal arc, striking down through both flesh and spine with equal force.
His head, severed from its body, met the ground with a wet, final thud.
His eyes, still wide and alive, remained open for just a fraction of a second longer before the world around him began to spin away, a chaotic blur of motion.
The body collapsed.
William saw it all.
The wielder of the axe stood over the body, her form towering and solid.
She was a Tiefling woman with skin the color of embers banked low, a deep and fiery red that seemed to glow faintly.
Her horns, one of which curved back in a predatory manner, while the other was broken during some long-lost battle, seemed to possess a certain elegance.
As she wrenched the massive battle-axe free, her tail flicked once behind her, adding a touch of grace to the moment.
Her physique was a testament to the power of muscle, built dense and powerful, yet her strength was evident without appearing imposing.
It was a strength that was both physically present and beautifully integrated into her overall form, contributing to a sense of grace and elegance rather than brute force.
Her movements were undeniably forceful and deliberate, but they were also surprisingly efficient, executed with a precision that belied her apparent power.
Her movements were marked by an air of quiet confidence; she carried herself with an unwaveringly deliberate grace, each step calculated and deliberate.
William's blood boiled.
It wasn't just the raw, unbridled desire or the deep-seated admiration that surged through him; there was something primal and almost instinctive about the feeling, something that seemed to erupt despite the lingering pain still clinging to his body.
He felt a deep, almost visceral awareness of the immense power that stood directly in his path, and that power felt very close to taking his life.
She turned her gaze towards him, her eyes scanning him intently, but then she quickly turned away, already scanning the crowd for her next potential victim.
Around them, the grove burned with conflict.
Karlach was already moving.
She crossed the distance in a handful of strides, boots tearing through churned soil as she dropped hard beside William. There was no hesitation, no caution. Her hands closed around the thorned vines still embedded in him like she meant to personally offend the grove.
"Hold still," she growled, voice rough and furnace-hot.
She pulled.
The vines fought her, barbs digging in with spiteful intent, but Karlach only snarled and hauled harder. Wood cracked. Thorns tore free in wet, brutal sounds, each one ripping loose with a spray of blood that splattered darkly against the ground.
William cried out as the last vine came free.
Blood followed.
Not a trickle.
A surge.
It poured from the torn channels in his flesh, spilling fast enough to make his head swim. The world tilted. His legs gave way.
Karlach caught him without effort, one arm locking around his back and keeping him upright as if he weighed nothing at all.
"Yeah, no. You're not face-planting after all that," she muttered.
Her free hand plunged into her pack and came out clutching a small glass bottle filled with thick red liquid that glimmered like molten metal. She popped the cork with her thumb.
"Drink."
William barely managed to shake his head before the bottle was pressed to his mouth. He tried to turn away, instincts flaring weakly.
Karlach didn't argue.
She tipped it anyway.
The potion burned as it hit his tongue, fire and iron flooding his mouth. He gagged, coughing, but then the sensation shifted.
Heat spread through him.
Not gentle. Not kind.
It hissed.
His wounds pulled tight with audible resistance, flesh knitting together as if snapping shut under pressure. Blood stopped mid-flow, skin sealing over torn muscle with an angry, sizzling sound that made his breath catch.
William went still.
Air rushed back into his lungs as the pain withdrew, not gone, but forced into retreat. His heart hammered as clarity returned.
Karlach pulled the bottle away and gave him a quick, assessing look, eyes sharp and practiced.
"Good," she said. "You're still annoyingly alive."
William lifted his gaze to her.
Really looked.
The heat around her wasn't metaphorical. It shimmered faintly in the air. Beneath leather and armor, something burned inside her chest, a brutal infernal device pulsing visibly beneath her sternum. Metal and rune-work glowed through gaps in her gear, each thrum answering the beat of her heart like a contained explosion.
Horns swept back with predatory elegance. Skin the color of banked embers. A massive battle-axe resting easily in one hand, as natural to her as breathing.
He knew exactly who she was.
The soldier sold to the Hells.
The living engine of rage and survival.
Karlach.
William said nothing.
He didn't need to.
She squeezed his shoulder once, firm and grounding, then rose to her feet, axe already coming back up as her attention snapped to the chaos still tearing the grove apart.
"Stay down for half a breath," she said over her shoulder. "Then when you recover rejoin the fun!."
A sharp, feral grin flashed briefly as she turned away.
"Because this isn't over, and I'd hate for you to miss the fun."