The light failed before we did.
By the time the forest began to thin, whatever color the sky had held was gone—replaced by a flat, starless dark that swallowed distance and softened edges. The air had cooled, heavy with damp earth and leaf rot stirred up by a day's worth of travel that refused to be forgotten. My boots dragged where they shouldn't have.
The decision to return to Nashkel had come faster than I expected—not because it was easy, but because whatever Brage had become would not wait for us to feel rested or prepared. Every mile we covered now was borrowed against exhaustion I knew we'd be paying for later.
Another concern pressed in alongside the fatigue—Caldo and Krumm. They'd walked away unconvinced, muttering about proof of the spirit. Running into them again now would invite questions I didn't have the clarity to answer.
The path toward Nashkel was familiar, but wrong at night. Landmarks arrived sooner than they should have, distances collapsing under the weight of urgency. Conversation dwindled to the occasional adjustment of a strap, the scrape of a boot catching on root or stone.
It was Xan who finally broke the silence.
"May I see the ring again?" he asked, extending a hand without looking at me.
"The ring?" I said, more tired than confused.
"The one taken from Mulahey," Xan replied. "The enchantment was intentional. Given what may be ahead, it bears reconsideration."
I passed it to him, briefly grateful that someone else was willing to shoulder a decision. He slowed as he examined it—by touch more than sight—thumb tracing the band where the magic rested folded inward rather than flaring outward. Endurance, not excess.
"Just as I thought," he said.
Branwen glanced over. She already understood.
"This does not grant power," Xan continued. "It merely allows one to endure longer."
He handed the ring back—not to me, but to her.
Branwen accepted it without comment. For a moment, her grip tightened, frustration surfacing before discipline forced it back down.
"Then I will endure," she said.
No one argued. Least of all me.
Ahead, the forest gave way sooner than it should have. The ground firmed beneath my boots, worn smooth by traffic even in the dark.
Nashkel.
The lights ahead resolved into streets rather than promise—lanterns hung low, windows still lit, movement carrying on despite the hour. Whatever damage had been done, the town had not yet finished accounting for it.
I broke from the line first.
"We regroup after Imoen and I check the Temple of Helm," I said. "If Nalin can be convinced to help with the curse, we'll know soon enough."
No one argued. There was a shared understanding now—Brage was not a problem to be circled or delayed. It needed to be addressed directly, and quickly, before it had the chance to become something worse.
Xan adjusted the strap of his pack, his eyes already drifting toward the familiar glow further downslope.
"The Belching Dragon," he said. "If we are to wait, we may as well do so somewhere predictable."
Branwen gave a short nod. "And visible. If you do not return, we will know where to begin looking."
Imoen flashed a quick grin at that, already easing closer to my side as the others slowed their pace.
Rasaad lingered at the edge of the group. His gaze turned away from the town proper, toward a quieter stretch of road where the lights thinned and the noise dulled. After a moment, he inclined his head.
"I will take my own path for a time," he said. "This place carries… weight. I would meet it with clarity."
I didn't question him. Rasaad rarely did anything without intention, even when that intention stayed his own.
The group separated without ceremony.
Xan and Branwen angled toward the tavern's glow, their silhouettes quickly swallowed by uneven light and passing bodies. Rasaad stepped away in the opposite direction, already half-lost to shadow.
Imoen waited until it was just the two of us before she spoke.
"Well," she said quietly, "let's hope Helm's feeling generous tonight.".
The Temple of Helm stood apart from the rest of Nashkel—not distant, but distinct. Its lights were steadier than the lanterns lining the streets below, less forgiving in their brightness. White flame burned behind tall windows, casting clean shapes onto stone worn smooth by years of petitioners who had arrived with problems they could not solve on their own.
Imoen slowed half a step as we approached, the noise of the town falling away behind us.
"Still busy," she murmured, nodding toward the open doors.
She wasn't wrong. Figures moved within—some seated, some pacing, others laid out on pallets along the walls. The smell reached us before anything else: incense burned too long, iron, sweat, and the sharp tang of old bandages. Whatever damage Brage and the creatures with him had inflicted earlier, the temple was still absorbing it.
The weight of it settled in my chest.
"This is where we start," I said, more to myself than to her.
We crossed the threshold.
Inside, the space was ordered but strained—no panic, no raised voices, just the quiet efficiency of people who had been working without pause for too many hours. A pair of acolytes moved between the injured, murmuring reassurances that sounded practiced but sincere. Somewhere deeper in the hall, a voice issued calm instructions, steady and unyielding.
Imoen leaned closer. "That'll be him," she whispered. "Nalin."
I spotted him near the far side of the chamber, sleeves rolled, hands stained dark with dried blood that was not his own. He spoke softly to a wounded guardsman, posture firm but not unkind. There was no hesitation in him—only focus.
When he finally straightened and turned, his eyes found us almost immediately.
"It is early for your return," he said as he approached. "I take it Brage's situation was not as simple as you hoped?"
I shook my head. "We think it's a curse."
Relief flickered across his features.
"That explains much," Nalin said. "I cannot leave the temple, but one of Helm's faithful can assist you."
He paused.
"Noober."
The name landed before the man did.
My stomach sank.
Of course it was Noober.
In the game, he'd been unforgettable for all the wrong reasons—an endless stream of questions, comments, and observations delivered without pause or purpose. A man who could follow you halfway across Nashkel just to ask if you'd heard the same thing twice already. Harmless, technically. Exhausting in practice.
I braced myself.
Then someone stepped forward from the side of the chamber.
Noober was slighter than I'd expected, narrow-shouldered and standing a bit too straight, as though afraid of taking up more space than allowed. His armor was serviceable but ill-fitted, straps uneven, the kind of gear adjusted repeatedly without ever quite settling. His hair was neatly combed yet already slipping out of place, and his face was fixed in an eager, open smile that seemed to arrive a heartbeat before he did.
"I'd be honored!" he said at once, clasping his hands together. "Truly honored!"
Imoen glanced at me, barely containing her grin.
"Judging by his name already?"
I shook my head, exhaling through my nose.
"No. No, not that."
Noober's smile only widened. "I'll meet you when you're ready! Whenever you're ready—I'll be ready!"
There was no irony in his voice. No self-awareness. Just enthusiasm, earnest and unchecked.
As Imoen and I stepped back into the night, the temple doors closing softly behind us, the sounds of Nashkel rushed back in—distant voices, clattering steps, life pressing forward whether we were ready or not.
This wasn't the Noober I remembered.
And with Brage still waiting, I wasn't sure whether that was a relief…
or another complication we'd yet to account for.